Midnight Dawn
by Azina Zelle
Summary: In this sequel to Shadows of the Mind, Dr. Jonathan Crane's well ordered life is about to be become unraveled. Emily Andrews has come back into his life and Scarecrow no longer is content to remain in Crane's shadow.
1. Old Friends

"_**Midnight Dawn"**_

(A Sequel to _"Shadows of the Mind")_

_**By Azina Zelle**_

Dr. Jonathan Crane stood in front of the glaring lights behind the heavy maple podium. He would seem unremarkable to the casual psychiatrist, notable because of his youth in a field when many respected psychiatrists in the field were in their mid-30s or older as well as his piercing blue eyes and lanky, almost delicate body. He sweated, but not from nerves; hot lights beat down upon him on center stage and the stagnant air was near suffocating in the crowded auditorium hall. Normally the hall was attended by 200 to 300 psychiatrists from across the country, but this year the number swelled to 500, particularly because Crane was guest speaker at this particular function. Word on his controversial treatments had spread even beyond the sphere of Gotham City, some from his fellow colleagues and his now infamous psychiatric paper published in _Psychology Today_ "Fear Itself: Studies and Treatments On the Criminal Mind."

Dr. Crane gazed at the huge crowd, waiting for his first words. He always relished this moment, enjoying making them wait with anticipation what he would say, but he also knew there only would be so long before frustration and boredom set in, exacerbated by the stifling heat of the auditorium and the crowded situation. He waited for the coughs to die down, then gave a slight grin and began without once looking at his heavily outlined and detailed notes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow colleagues in the psychiatric profession, we do ourselves a grave disservice to our patients by coddling them as so many do nowadays, as if afraid their minds will shatter with the least distress. If any of you are familiar with my work – I have not done this with my patients. The mind is more resilient than we give it credit for and when it comes to Fear – Fear is something that must be confronted head on. Make no mistake, Freud, Jung, Maslow, they all had their quaint ideas on Fear and where it stems from. Fear must be confronted, yes. But we must go one step further, ladies and gentlemen . . . We must unleash their Fear in order to cure it."

A general murmur stirred in the audience, a murmur Crane had expected long before he began his speech. He didn't smile, but gazed at his audience in dead seriousness as psychiatrists either looked at him or each other in confusion.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking," Crane continued. "This treatment has never been tested – but it has. It has been used for several years at Arkham Asylum with great success. Patient 2042 – Mr. Jeremy Sanders suffered from delusional paranoia and was unable to function in normal society. After numerous therapy sessions and mild sedatives, Mr. Sanders was able to confront his paranoia."

"That's not what I heard!"

Everyone turned to a man in a black suit, standing solitary in a sea of seated psychiatrists. He was in his early to mid-40s with brunette hair and a slightly receding hairline.

"Sir, there will be time for questions after my talk," Crane said, a slight tone of arrogance seeping in.

"Not when you're spewing lies throughout your 'talk,' Crane! Talk therapy? _Mild sedatives?_ Don't make laugh! Everyone knows the horrors you put the poor tormented souls through you call 'patients' at your nut house!"

"That is quite enough. Please sit down, sir."

"What do you do? Lace their food with your poison? Slip hallucinogens into their water? I hear you can hear their screams even through the brick walls!"

"Security, please escort that man out of this lecture hall," Crane said.

While Crane watched security haul the struggling man out, Crane felt the metal structure of the Fear Toxin air pressure gun hiding beneath his suit jacket sleeve.

_That fool! If he were alone, I would give him a taste of my Fear Therapy Treatment up close and personal. Then he will see how it really feels to confront his own Fears. He will be too busy worrying about his own Fears than to be concerned over Arkham and my patients!_

"Don't listen to him! Lies! All lies," the man cried out as the door closed, muffling out his screams.

"Well, now that that slight interruption is over with we can move on," said Crane. "Ah, yes. Fear treatment at Arkham –"

Crane was surrounded by psychiatrists after the lecture, pressing in close in the hallway outside the lecture hall as he shook hands and tried clarifying the finer points of his Fear Therapy.

"While in theory your treatment appears logical, you remain far too general without enough details on how you go about unleashing your patients' fears, Dr. Crane. You talk of therapy and medication. Do you induce regression, hypnotherapy?"

"I try to tap into my patients worst fears in order to unleash them. I am merely a conduit, Dr. Westmeyer. I have developed a medication, which, with my patients' full consent, will unlock in their minds their fears. Once they confront their fear, although painful and terrifying initially, the purgative and curative effects are almost immediate on my patients. They are able to lead fuller and richer lives, no longer imprisoned by their fear."

Dr. Steven Westmeyer, nodded and smiled. He was slightly older than Dr. Crane with blondish hair and hazel eyes. His path was very similar in many ways to Crane, working through school, studying late nights and working weekends to become one of the brightest young minds in the field.

"Well, whatever it is, I would be fascinated to hear more of the details. This new drug you have synthesized and patented for your patients sounds like a godsend to psychiatry and you must share it if it truly unlocks the fears of the mind. How many countless hours of therapy we wouldn't have to waste if the patients could pop a pill to unlock such a secret so quickly!"

Crane frowned slightly at his colleague's last flippant remark.

"It is not in pill form, Dr. Westmeyer, it is an inhalant, but it is much more than just one dosage and the patient is cured. There is extensive therapy involved as well, as I'm sure you are aware of. I take great pains with all my patients."

"Oh, yes, that I know, Dr. Crane. You are gaining quite a reputation." But then he leaned close to Crane's ear so as not to be overheard by the other psychiatrists. "A reputation that is not always favorable. Be careful, Jonathan."

Crane gazed at Westmeyer, a slow grin spreading over his lips.

"Ah, Dr. Westmeyer. You must agree that we are all slaves to Fear to some degree, but when we master that Fear, subjugate it and then use it – yes, make Fear our slave rather than our master – then we shall be a potent force."

"And have you mastered your Fear, Jonathan?"

The grin vanished from Crane's lips and he gazed in all seriousness at him.

"I have confronted it and seen it in the eyes of one very dear to me. Yes, I think I am as close to mastering it as I shall be."

"Jonathan, you need not do this alone, you know." Dr. Westmeyer handed him his business card. "You know where to find me."

Crane gazed at the business card while he was crushed in again by other psychiatrists asking him questions and drilling him on the finer points of his methods.

"Hey, you quack!"

Crane looked up icily toward the harsh voice; his face suddenly changed from regret and sadness to a cold, contemptuous mask.

"You don't want to listen to the truth so you kicked me out and continued to spew your filth for all to hear," cried the man who interrupted Crane once before.

He rudely was cutting his way through the crowd of psychiatrists who patiently had been waiting to talk to him, shoving many of them roughly aside.

"You can't shut me up forever, Crane! I know what you do at Arkham, the sickening tortures you pass off as 'therapy'! You unleash their fears – and they're screaming for days! Don't you deny it!"

"And pray on what foundation do you base these slanderous allegations upon Mr. –"

"Mr. Syler. And they are far from 'slanderous,' not when you _destroy lives!_"

Crane gazed at the rage flashing in the dark eyes of the man and half-wondered if a relative was a patient of his. Whatever it was, this man hated him for some reason.

_(Why do we care_, hissed Scarecrow. _Let him taste Fear! Make him Scream! He deserves to scream after insulting us! He shall writhe in torment!)_

_No, not here. Too many people and this place is far too public. We need our privacy and certainly such a show merits being back in the comfort and convenience of the asylum?_

Scarecrow's laugh echoed through his mind.

"I see. Well, Mr. Syler, if you have any doubts regarding my good intentions and the humane conditions of my patients, please feel free to visit Arkham Asylum at any time."

Dr. Crane carefully placed Westmeyer's card into his jacket and plucked out his own, depositing it into Syler's hand.

"Please visit me any time," Dr. Crane leaned close, his eyes gazing clear and cold into Syler's. "I shall be waiting for you."

Crane then turned to the rest of the psychiatrists and held up his hands.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, my fellow colleagues thank you for an enjoyable afternoon. As much as I wish to remain here for the rest of symposium, my duties at the asylum are many, unfortunately. Please excuse my absence and feel free to call or visit me if you wish to discuss further the therapy regimen of my patients."

A flurry of questions erupted as Crane politely, but insistently slid through the swarming crowd, using the side of his briefcase to cut through particularly tight spots.

_(Use the toxin on all of them! Make them all scream! Make them experience Fear_, shrieked Scarecrow)

Crane fought rolling his eyes as he cleared the crowd and briskly walked down the hallway.

"I'll visit you Crane," screamed Mr. Syler. "I'll visit you and see what a phony you really are!"

_Good! Visit and then you will be mine along with all my other patients,_ thought Crane, a smug smile growing on his lips. _Then we'll be one happy family and I'll especially enjoy discovering what your Fear is._

Crane was not looking where he was going, playing the image of Syler screaming before him as the toxin was released in some deserted, dark room back at the asylum. He bumped hard into a woman going in the opposite direction and although it didn't faze him much, the papers she was balancing in her arms burst dramatically into the air and fluttered down on to the floor like oversized confetti. Scarecrow was laughing at the distraught woman, but Crane was more disgusted at the delay this would cause.

He had seen some men continue to walk when they had done such things, but it reminded him far too much of his days back in high school. Bullies would trip him to drop his books and laughed as he struggled to pick them up while they kicked them out of his reach or trampled his meticulous homework underfoot. Crane sucked in a breath and bent down, helping picking up the papers his unfortunate collision had knocked over. Absently he gazed at the woman in the silvery white blouse and navy blue skirt. Her long, brunette hair had fallen over her face as she frantically was snatching up pages off the floor.

"Please forgive my clumsiness. I am sorry, Ms. –."

Crane picked up the last of the papers just as she had finished grabbing the last paper on her side and he added his pile to her own. She straightened up and brushed back the hair that had fallen over her face. A sudden shock of realization came over Crane, then he thought better of it.

_No, it can't be_, he thought.

"Miss Andrews," she said, then paused as she gazed at Crane. "Emily Andrews. You – you can't be –"

"Jonathan Crane," he whispered.

Emily gazed at him a moment, stunned. The last time she had seen him was under the hot sun on a distant June afternoon while they both wore blue graduation gowns. Jonathan was a gawky, thin 17-year-old, often wearing clothes that hung loose and ragged on his bony frame. Gone were the poor clothes and teenage awkwardness. He dressed more sharply than many men, wearing a black suit neatly pressed and a gray wool sweater over his white dress shirt and burgundy tie.

But for all that had changed, the eyes were unmistakable, those pale blue eyes Emily always found to be his most striking feature. Although she had to admit those eyes seemed different somehow, not as warm or inviting as she remembered from high school. His gaze seemed more guarded, his thoughts closed to her.

"Em – excuse me – Miss Andrews, what a pleasure. How have you been?"

"Oh, please, Jon. Why the formality? It has been eight years, but don't make me feel so old as to address me as Miss Andrews. That's what they call me at work."

"Work?" Crane gazed at the huge pile of papers she held precariously in her arms. "Are you too here for the psychiatry symposium?"

"Oh, no. There's more than one lecture taking place here today. Early childhood psychology is down the hallway. I just came from there. Dr. Angela Meyers is exceptionally good in her field and she offered some insight I can use back at the daycare center."

Crane's eyes widened.

"You work at a daycare center? Why does that not surprise me," he said in amusement. "You did seem to love the children if I recall from our behavioral study back in high school."

"Yes, they are wonderful, if you can get past the temper tantrums, the sticky fingers and the flu season, it can be fun," Emily said, smiling.

"Dr. Crane! Please, one more question about this Fear Therapy of yours," asked a psychiatrist, who suddenly spotted him.

Crane sighed and turned his cool eyes toward the psychiatrist.

"_Dr._ Crane," Emily gasped. "You're a doctor – at your age, Jon? You must be the youngest doctor ever!"

"I'm a doctor of psychiatry, that's all," said Crane.

"Since you are not returning to Arkham so quickly, Dr. Crane, perhaps you will answer my question as to the implementation of your Fear Therapy," said the psychiatrist.

Crane's smile faded suddenly as he turned to the psychiatrist.

"I will be more than happy to answer all your questions, Dr. Gate, but right now I am talking with a good friend of mine." Crane brusquely handed him a card. "Visit me at Arkham and if you have any more questions, I will give you a full demonstration of the therapy regimen."

"Thank you, Dr. Crane! Good day, Miss!"

Emily's mind was swirling with even more questions as she watched the psychiatrist gratefully take Crane's card and depart down the hallway.

"Fear Therapy? Arkham? Jon, did you just give a talk at the psychiatry symposium?"

"Yes, and I honestly believe they didn't understand half of the concepts I presented," Crane sighed. "But that is to be expected."

Emily's chocolate brown eyes gazed at Crane in curiosity and fascination.

"Well, why don't you tell me? Perhaps I will understand."

His blue eyes softened and a smile slowly crept across his full lips.

"Yes, I believe you will," he whispered.

* * *

If Emily had been asked in a wager to guess where Jonathan Crane was at this point in life, she realized by now how badly she would have lost. They sat at a quiet, dimly lit table in Monaco Restaurant. She would have almost thought it was romantic if Jon wasn't such an old friend of hers. Absently she played with the empty plastic bag that once held the Saltine crackers for the soup. The fidgeting was not lost on Crane. 

"Are you nervous," he asked.

"What?"

"You are exhibiting a repetitive sign of nervous behavior." He smiled and pointed to the crumpled cracker bag.

Emily scrunched her nose at him.

"Now you're just showing off, _Dr. Crane_."

"It's my specialty," he said. "But to answer your question, I've been in charge of Arkham Asylum for three years now, ever since Dr. Gooding suffered a psychotic breakdown."

"Is that a – a normal occurrence for doctors heading that place," asked Emily, taking a large sip of her wine.

"Only if that doctor is unprepared for the strain of the duties that position entails – sadly Dr. Gooding was unprepared."

"I just hope you are prepared, Jon. It must be a very stressful place to work. I don't know how you do it."

Crane slightly grinned, his pale blue eyes flashing in the dim candlelight.

"There is so much potential at Arkham I could not have had anywhere else. There is so much suffering, but so much good I can do. I can help them, Emily. I know I can."

Emily smiled as she gazed at him. Her hand was worrying the tablecloth and then she realized she touched something warm, the delicate fingers of his hand. In embarrassment, she turned her eyes away and slid her hands back to her lap. Crane just grinned, his eyes flickering in the candlelight.

"Now I must ask you my questions. It's only fair since I've been so good about answering all of yours," Crane said.

"And what do you want to know," Emily asked, a bit flustered.

"When did you decide you wanted to go into daycare?"

"Oh, back in college. I continued in early childhood development," Emily said. "I love children and that seemed the best place to be."

"How did your boyfriend take it, from high school?"

"Kevin? We broke up soon after graduation." Emily rolled her eyes. "Frankly, I was getting bored with him."

Crane's heart sank at the news – not for Kevin – but at all the wasted years, all the years he could have been in contact with Emily, but hadn't been simply out of jealousy and self-pity.

_And Scarecrow._

_(Yes, she would make a pretty test subject, wouldn't she_, Scarecrow hissed. _Oh, her screams would be sweet indeed!)_

Crane kept his face a mask, an ability he had learned adeptly since the emergence of Scarecrow.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Crane said at last. "I hope the daycare is thriving though?"

"Oh, yes," Emily said, smiling. "Perhaps too much so. Twenty-four kids and most of them 3- and 4-year-olds! Can you imagine that? It's a real mad house!"

"I guess that's one thing we have in common between our two places of work," Crane said, slightly smiling.

"Now that you mention it, you have a point." Emily took her glass of white wine and raised it. "To renewing old friendships."

Crane wrapped his delicate fingers around his glass of red wine and clinked his goblet against hers.

"Cheers," he said.

He sipped his wine while she almost gulped hers. As he set his glass back on the table, he gazed at her, his cool blue eyes unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

* * *

**Author Note: **Well, I've begun my sequel to _**Shadows of the Mind**_ and I hope this first chapter isn't a disappointment. For those of you who have not read my previous story, the back story between Emily and Jonathan can be found in Chapters 3, 5, 9 and 12. But if you don't want to read it, I'll summarize in a nutshell. 

Jonathan meets Emily in high school and develops a crush on her in psychology class. They become partners in a behavioral study examining young children and their behavior (Emily loves it and Jon hates it). Jonathan still has hopes of telling Emily he loves her at their high school graduation, but before he does, he realizes she has a boyfriend and that they will be going to separate universities. It seems all chances of a romance between the two of them is lost – or is it? To be continued here …


	2. Chrysalis

Crane had a strange feeling of déjà vu as he stepped through the door. Compared to Arkham with the sedate pale greens and blues, and the ever-present sterile white, the riot of bright colors almost made him squint behind his wire framed glasses. Cardboard butterflies dangled from the ceiling on string, paper plate smiley faces gazed back at him from the windows and a medley of scribbled crayon artwork that easily could pass for a mangled version of a Rorschach test fluttered on the walls.

Emily smiled and gently grasped his arm.

"Don't be shy, Jon." She turned to the preschoolers who suddenly were staring at him. "Kids, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane. He's here visiting us today."

"I don't like shots," mumbled Sarah, a three-year-old red head.

"No, he's not that kind of a doctor," Emily said. "He's a – a head doctor."

"You go to him when your head hurts," asked Mikey, a boy with curly blond hair.

"Um, no." Emily struggled for the right words for a moment. "You go to him when you feel sad and want to talk."

"Oh! My brother is so mean to me," Sarah cried. "He stole my doll the other day and I'm so angry –"

"That's enough, Sarah," said Emily.

"Sibling rivalry is a common occurrence for children in Sarah's age bracket. Clearly her older brother is displacing his anger toward his sister by hiding a possession – in this case a doll."

The children stared blankly at Dr. Crane; he could have sworn Mikey at this point was drooling.

"Okay, back to play time everyone," Emily said brightly.

The kids just as quickly lost interest in Dr. Crane and went back to playing with their toys, talking very loudly and occasionally screaming over something.

"Charming," Crane said. "I can see why you enjoy working with children."

He took a step into the room and something squeaked underfoot. Crane stooped down to retrieve the offending toy and saw that it was an green alien toy that, when you squeezed it, not only would make a pathetic wheezing squeak, but its eyes would pop out.

"And this toy is even more charming," Crane said, in mild amusement.

"The kids are always leaving the toys everywhere. I'm sorry; it's such a trip hazard. Kids! Start picking up your toys and putting them away if you're not playing with them or no cookies!"

There was a general moan, but the kids herded in the stray toys and threw them haphazardly in the red, yellow and blue plastic toy boxes.

"I remember at one time you wouldn't deprive them of cookies and milk when I suggested it," Crane said smugly.

Emily turned her attention briefly from the pandemonium of children and gave him a sidelong glance.

"If I recall, you wanted to do that just to gauge their reaction. Now I'm no psychiatrist, _doctor_, but from my experience I know that kids will scream and cry at a moment's notice if they don't get their way. There's no psychology in that."

"Actually there is," he said. "Children will do anything to fulfill their desires, just like their adult counterparts."

There was a tense silence between them and Emily focused her attention back on the children. Crane was wondering how long he would spend visiting her daycare, already boredom was setting in. As manic as the energy was at the center, it paled somehow to the inner complexity of the mind, the unexpected violence he might encounter from a patient – the thrill of releasing the Fear Toxin on an arrogant criminal.

Here he could do none of that, although he was intrigued by how pliant and malleable a child's mind would be. He truly could shape it into whatever he wished if it would be possible to acquire a child at the asylum – and how would the toxin affect a child, the mind and his development?

_Ah, so many questions. All will remain unanswered, regrettably. Dr. Jonathan Crane, you have no patience for children._

"Jon, what are you thinking about?"

Crane turned his gaze back to Emily, her warm, brown eyes curious.

"Just a therapy regimen and some psychoanalytic application," Crane said.

"Always thinking about work. Here, let me show you something. I'm very proud of this."

On a shelf too high for the children to reach, but easy enough for them to see was a glass aquarium, which was filled with grass, leaves and twigs. At a distance, it appeared to be empty, but upon examining it closer, Crane made out a silken cocoon dangling securely to one of the branches while nearby a bright green caterpillar contentedly munched on some leaves.

"The one in the chrysalis will be a butterfly soon," Emily said. "That will be such a delight to the children. They've never see it before."

Crane gazed at the chart nearby the case detailing its lifecycle from egg, larva and pupa, to butterfly.

_(You are the base creature I shall emerge from_, Scarecrow said in Crane's mind. _You are the slinking worm, weak and defenseless that can be crushed. But from you I shall be born, strong, powerful, invincible, Fear Incarnate!)_

_Scarecrow – the name that shall strike terror into the hearts of everyone in Gotham City,_ Crane thought. _Ah, you are amusing, but please don't make me laugh in front of my good friend. That might be embarrassing, even for me._

_(You deny your destiny, content to slink on the earth like this caterpillar? It's time for me to emerge from the cocoon,_ cried Scarecrow._ Break free, spread your wings! Become Terror!)_

"Germy Jeremy! Don't touch him or you'll get Jeremy Germs _all over you!_"

Crane's eyes snapped from the butterfly case to where the child's voice came from.

"I don't have germs," Jeremy said. "And the name is _Jerry_."

These children were not the young preschoolers Emily had shown Crane earlier. They were nearing kindergarten. Jerry was a boy with buzz-cut black hair and clothes that seemed too short for him. He was surrounded by two girls and a boy.

"Jerry Berry, we should be wary! Don't touch him! It's Germy Jeremy," laughed one of the girls.

Meanwhile the other children were dancing around him.

"Look! He's wearing clothes that are too short," cried the other girl.

"His parents can't even buy him new clothes they're so poor," said the boy.

"They just hate him," said the girl. "He's so ugly!"

"Oh, look," the boy exclaimed. "Is Germy Jeremy beginning to cry?"

"Oh! He is! He is! Germy Jeremy is _cryiiiiiiing_!"

The children began to laugh again and dance around the trembling boy when they noticed a long, lanky shadow towering over them. One of the girls looked up and saw a man in a black suit with piercing blue eyes glaring down at her. It reminded her of the look she received from her father when she was in trouble, only much worse somehow from this stranger.

"Do you feel better now? Are you happy," Crane asked, a bitter smile on his lips. "Does it somehow make you feel superior to crush that poor boy's feelings into the ground?"

"What's 'superior' mean," asked the girl.

"Oh, I know you think it's all innocent fun and games now, tormenting him like that, but it's not," Crane continued in a torrent of tightly controlled anger. "Imagine what it's like for him! Imagine what it's like being laughed at and alone. Because it's not funny and if you still think it is – I have something that can change all that."

He gazed at the children with his icy blue eyes. The girls' lips trembled in fear and the boy looked at him as if to say "What a creep!"

"Jon! Why? What is going on," asked Emily. "I thought you were still over by the butterfly case."

"It's okay. Everything will be all right now," Crane sighed as he watched the bullies gingerly depart.

He turned his eyes toward Jerry, who still was huddled on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, partially obscuring the pants that were too short on his long legs. Crane kneeled down on the ground beside the boy and gently removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, handing it to the boy. Jerry quickly wiped the tears away, hoping nobody else noticed he had been crying.

"Th-thank you," Jerry said, and handed back the handkerchief, but Crane refused.

"Don't let them bully you," Crane whispered to the boy. "They draw strength from your fear and sadness. Never let them."

* * *

Crane walked alongside Emily in silence for a moment and gazed at the long row of apartments before him. The moon gleamed high in the early evening sky while the street lamps shone pools of warm light along the sidewalk. 

"I'm glad you're living in a good neighborhood," Crane said. "I want you to be safe."

"What, now you're my father? Jon, you really astound me. You're not who I thought you would be."

"And how did you think I would be?"

"Oh, I don't know – just different."

"That word is very open to interpretation. Please elaborate."

"Well, you're no longer that boy I met back in high school."

Crane slightly smiled, looking down at his highly polished black leather shoes before turning his pale blue eyes toward her.

"You are more guarded somehow. Did someone hurt you, Jon?"

"Just the normal wear and tear of life, that's all, Miss – excuse me – Emily. I do work at one of the largest asylums for the criminally insane. That does make you a bit more guarded than usual."

"The criminally insane? You work with criminals? You never told me that."

"Not only do I work with criminals," Crane said. "It's my specialty. I'm curing them and soon they will be safe. They will harm no one ever again."

Emily stared at him, now her eyes guarded.

"That sounds impossible," she said.

"Nothing is impossible," he said. "Not for me. I have discovered a breakthrough in their treatment."

"I would like to see it if it truly is so amazing."

Crane stopped walking, his pale blue eyes glinting in the cool moonlight.

"You want to see Arkham?"

"And why not? You saw my daycare center today and I know you don't care that much for children, Jon."

"It's dangerous at Arkham."

"Again, trying to protect me! I said I would be okay walking home alone tonight – like I've done these past five years now. I'm big girl now."

Crane took a step closer toward her and Emily suddenly felt nervous, seeing him so close. He did look different now, his skin translucent and pale, his eyes gleaming.

"Bad things can happen in Gotham City. I have seen it," he whispered. "I just don't want it to happen to you."

For a moment Emily couldn't speak, not knowing what to say to him, but the silence was too thick, settling upon them both like a muffling veil.

"Is that why you gave Jerry that advice about those bullies? Were you hurt, Jon?"

Crane suddenly turned away and gazed down the street again.

"Your apartment is the third to the left, is that correct," he asked. "We're almost there."

"Please, Jon. I noticed the cuts and bruises back in high school, you know."

Crane's brisk walk stopped as quickly as it started, but he dared not turn toward her.

"You were beaten up by bullies in high school, weren't you?"

Crane remained silent, but didn't move, as if frozen to the lonely sidewalk by her words.

"I – I did notice them, Jon. I just was afraid to say anything."

"_Afraid?_"

Crane turned around and she saw a strange glint in his eyes, a flash of something she had not seen before, something hungry, even sinister.

"What were you afraid of," he asked insistently.

"I – I was afraid to embarrass you, to hurt your feelings by asking you."

"Oh, no! You would never do that. Never!"

Emily felt she suddenly must be crazy, because although this was the same man she had been with all day, it felt like a completely different person. No longer was he wracked by pain and sadness. Easy were his steps as he walked toward her, a sly grin upon his lips, a dark fire flickering in the depths of his eyes. His lips parted as he closed the space between them and she could almost feel his warm breath upon her in the cool night. She began to feel her heart race and tried not to meet his gaze; somehow afraid she would fall into the depths of his eyes and never find her way out again. But when she dared to look up, she saw he had changed back, returned to Dr. Jonathan Crane. The fire had been near extinguished to a dull flickering ember as he gazed back at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Thank you, Emily. Thank you for caring about me then."

They walked the rest of the way to her apartment and continued to talk about trivial matters to dispel the tension that had happened a moment ago. At the doorstep, Emily turned to go inside, but stopped, hesitating to open the door.

"I really enjoyed our time together, Jon, but –"

Again the dead silence settled upon the air. Crane was unphased by the silence, almost seemed to expect this moment, much to Emily's surprise. It broke her heart in a way to see that he was so used to rejection and disappointment.

"But you did not take your advice you gave to Jerry. You have sadness and fear, don't you, Jon?"

A slow grin broke the unimpassioned mask that usually graced Crane's face when expecting some emotional blow.

"Perceptive and astute as always," Crane said. "I believe you missed your calling in psychiatry."

"But you didn't answer my question," she said. "Look, I know it's a huge question to ask. Listen, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of."

Again the manic, hungry spark glimmered in Crane's eyes, but just as quickly it was snuffed out.

"No, please Emily. Don't tell me that … I don't want to know!"

Crane began to leave, almost in a hurry as if afraid she would shout out her worst fear, like some terrible secret he would be unable to purge from his mind once he heard it.

* * *

**Blodeuedd** – I'm so glad you were excited I began on my sequel. I hope you are able to post more reviews soon "hint" and that your studies aren't too grueling. I am still in awe of your last chapter of "Dark My Light." I hope you enjoy this next chapter. 


	3. The Rift

Crane stared up at the ceiling, studying the shadows that occasionally would drift across his ceiling with each late night passing car. Long ago he had looked at the relentlessly ticking alarm clock by his bedside.

3:38 a.m. The numbers glared red in the darkness. It was too late to drug himself with more sleeping pills, forcing himself into a blissful dreamless sleep, but too early to get up and get ready for work. He clutched the smooth, cool cotton sheets and gazed at his apartment's rich surroundings. So different from the sagging cushions of his childhood bed, threadbare sheets and the incessant scratching he would hear at all times of the night – rats looking for food behind the walls.

Now he had all comforts and luxuries, but none of the peace and something more sinister had replaced the scratching of rat's claws, something that would keep him even more sleepless and restless in the mind.

_(You know you are so weak_, Scarecrow whispered. _You should have let her tell you her fear. We were so close, Jonathan. So close to discovering her darkest secret, her innermost terror.)_

_I didn't want to know, because you would use it, use it against her_, Crane thought.

_(Ah, another weakness, Jonathan – Love. We don't need, Love. Don't you see, Jonathan? Don't you see I will love you more than any woman ever could? I will care for you when all others have left? I will never leave you, Jonathan. Never!)_

Crane stared at the ceiling, the shadow of a grin upon his lips.

_Am I mistaken, Scarecrow, or are you jealous? Are you jealous I might love Emily and forget about you? Perhaps I have at last found something the Great Scarecrow is fearful of?_

There was a moment of eerie silence in Crane's mind, almost a delightful silence he hadn't known in a long while, then a sarcastic laugh erupted from Scarecrow.

_(Afraid of that **girl**? Fear Incarnate knows no Fear, Jonathan Crane! Fear Incarnate inspires Fear in All, but never tastes Fear itself. No, I do not fear the girl, but perhaps she does fear us, Jonathan. Perhaps she is slipping out of your grasping quicker than you wished!)_

Crane was not determined to let Scarecrow play mind games with him. He had been through this before and at times like these Scarecrow reminded him of a manipulative, mentally abusive brother who would do anything to achieve his ends. Crane slid out of bed, slipped on his robe and walked barefooted out of the bedroom into his private library. If he had to he would read himself to sleep and ignore the inane ramblings of madness incarnate that was Scarecrow.

_(You ignore me, but you know I speak the truth_, Scarecrow continued, unphased. _She knows something is wrong with you, a secret you hide. You are not the sweet, innocent little boy she was hoping for, the little lap dog that would follow after her smitten in high school. You are now something more, something greater. She does not see it! Mere mortals cannot see gods when they walk among them. They are blinded! But there is a way to remove the veil from her eyes, Jonathan, and to make her yours, forever!)_

Crane was skimming over a particularly thick psychology book, but its words and meaning not sinking in.

_(Fear Toxin, Jonathan. She will be yours, body, soul, mind – use the Fear Toxin.)_

Crane slammed the book shut vengefully.

"That's it! You are not to speak of Emily ever again and don't you dare ever, _ever_ try to come out when I am near her. _Is that understood?_"

"Now, Jonathan, is it you who is afraid?"

"I am not afraid of you, _Scarecrow!_ And I can banish you anytime I wish with these!"

Crane pulled out from his robe pocket a pharmaceutical bottle of pills for the treatment of schizophrenia.

"So keep your idle threats for during the therapy session with the thugs who are impressed by them," Crane said. "Because I am not!"

"Oh, Jonathan, Jonathan! Why the animosity? Why the anger? Let's be friends, as we once were. Remember the fun we had together? Such fun!"

Crane suddenly noticed he was hugging himself and at that moment he also came to the realization Scarecrow had been using his mouth and voice to talk back to him for some time. How long had he been having control over him like this? Crane straightened his arms to his sides and kept them straight as if willing strict control of his body.

"No, Scarecrow. You are on probation until you prove otherwise. You shall get your 'enjoyment' at Arkham, but that is simply because I must continue my therapy regimen, but not for your pleasure, understand? Not anymore. And if you prove otherwise, I shall double my medication dose. Then we shall see if Fear Incarnate shall never taste Fear!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **I was debating when I wrote this whether this chapter was necessary and then I decided it offered some insight into the disintegration of the relationship between Scarecrow and Crane with the emergence of Emily on to the scene. I am aware this chapter is very short. The longer chapter will be posted this Saturday.

**Blodeudd:** Yes, Crane and kids are an irresistible combination for me as you have noticed already. As for the warm and fuzzy, maybe this chapter has answered your question of whether this story might turn dark or not. But let me say the best is still yet to come. And please post a new installment of _Dark My Light_. I'm going into withdrawal!

**Jumana: **Hmm, I don't think it's possible for me to write a fluff story, romance maybe, but if this story falls under that category let me just say in advance it will be a highly unconventional one – expect the unexpected. ; )

**ACleverName: **Thanks so much for the reviews and I'm glad you enjoyed the dialogue. I really loved the scene with Crane and the children, especially Jerry. Originally I had it with Emily breaking up the children, but then I thought, Why wouldn't Crane, he's the one picked on as a child? It would hurt him the most, he would do it.


	4. Frail Illusions

Crane reached for his pristine white doctor's coat hanging on the brass hook next to a spare one in case it was soiled over the course of the day, which was a common occurrence with the more violent or suicidal patients. He had not felt nervous since his early days as an intern at Arkham Asylum, but today was different. As Crane slipped the large coat over shoulders, he looked at Emily who stood uncomfortably at his side. They were in his office, lined with oak bookshelves, steel filing cabinets, and a large desk with a window shining cold, mirthless morning sunshine behind it. Somehow in Arkham, everything seemed to become depressing, even the morning sun. Maybe it was because the sunlight pooling on his desk was cut with the sharp shadows of bars from the windows.

"I am surprised you still wanted to see Arkham, Emily," said Crane, trying to lighten the mood. "This is no daycare center."

"I know, Jon, but I am curious about what you do and where you have been all this time. Honestly, I don't think I'd have the courage to work here."

Crane smoothed out his pure white coat.

"Honestly, I wouldn't have the patience to work with that many children," Crane said. "But I think you already knew that."

"I don't know, Jon. You were so kind to Jerry. He has been going through some rough times. It must have meant so much to him what you did yesterday."

Crane's normally cool eyes brightened, but just momentarily. As quickly as the spark flared, it died and he busied himself with clipping on his badge and presenting her with a large plastic guest badge.

"I recommend you stay close to me at all times, Emily. Arkham is not a safe place, even for its physicians."

"Again, trying to protect me." Nonchalantly she clipped on the badge. "Just what are you afraid of Jon?"

"Just please do not wander off. Some of the patients here are imbalanced and prone to violence."

"Have any of them hurt you, Jon?"

A sly grin crept across his lips.

"Not yet – nor will they," he said.

"How can you be so confident?"

But he didn't answer her question, all he asked her was:

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, I guess so."

Crane paused.

"Are you ready? We don't have to do this –"

"No, Jon, I am ready."

He slightly smiled, then straightened much like a general preparing to enter a battlefield and opened the door. A bright light flooded Emily's eyes from the dark, sedate quarters of Crane's office. Already from the narrow confines of the door's frame she could see nurses rushing around and a few patients being ferried in wheelchairs. Crane looped his arm in hers. Emily at first thought it was a sign of affection, but she saw no smile on his lips now, no warmth in his eyes. She realized now he was doing this to make sure she kept up with him step for step and didn't wander off as he had warned.

They entered the corridor and Arkham truly was Gotham City's Bedlam, swarming with tightly controlled chaos. It was its own teeming city, a City of the Mad and she soon realized Dr. Jonathan Crane was its Mayor. Almost as soon as a nurse spied him she rushed up to him.

"Dr. Crane, we have a situation. Mr. Worth is having psychotic delusions."

"Typical for the early morning. A mild sedative should do … 200 mg. Thank you, Miss Elliott."

That nurse ran off and Crane and Emily walked a few more feet before an orderly ran up to him.

"Dr. Crane, Mrs. Stewenz won't stop shrieking."

"And why is that, Mr. Iyo," Crane asked coolly.

"I believe there's a spider in her room. Her chart says arachnophobia."

"Then for God's sake kill the spider. Use a broom if you must, Mr. Iyo!"

This continued for 10 more minutes until Crane passed out of the newer psychiatric ward of Arkham Asylum. Throughout this Emily kept quiet and remained a spectator, watching as Crane reminded her of a captain of a ship giving orders to a panicky crew or a conductor trying to pull off a great symphony after the musicians had broken their strings. Emily was quite amazed Crane hadn't suffered a nervous breakdown long ago.

_Or maybe he has I don't know it yet_, she thought.

As Crane turned the corridor, Emily noticed they approached a heavy steel door with triple locks. Quickly he snapped off his ID card and swiped it through a key lock. The light over the door flashed from red to green. The locks snapped open with a harsh _Clack_ and the rusty white doors wheeled back on their hinges, which sounded like a tormented groan.

"We now have 30 seconds to enter the Restricted Ward before it locks down again," Crane said.

He looped his arm through hers and led her through the gaping steel door. She gazed at the long hallway before her, white, cold, lined by pale green metal doors. Although calm and quiet compared to the ward she passed through, this place felt deathly eerie, like a tomb.

"And what sort of patients are treated here," Emily asked.

Crane looked down the hall and lightly shrugged.

"The criminally insane," he muttered.

_Slam! Click!_ The door closed behind them, locking them inside.

"Don't worry, Emily. In some ways you're safer here than back in the western wing of the asylum. I take great pride in curing all these patients – all the criminally insane I treat personally. I design a treatment regimen tailor-made to their specific needs and psychosis based on their crime."

For some reason a shiver ran through Emily, but not because she feared the criminals who lurked beyond each of these metal doors. Somehow she guessed only a truly horrific treatment could cure a mind capable of committing terrible crimes, but she didn't dare ask Crane for details. She feared shattering any frail illusions that already were like so many wisps of smoke, distorting and vanishing with each passing breath.

She strained as she walked by one window to catch a glimpse and saw one face staring back at her, the eyes haunted, the ragged, bitten-on nails scratching against the steel-enforced glass. The criminal-patient reminded her of a trapped animal, but something else in the eyes – madness and desperation – dwelt there as well. Was Crane driving these criminals to madness? She turned and looked at him, his clear blue eyes cool and calm, a smug smile playing upon his lips. He clearly was proud and immensely satisfied with the work he was doing here – whatever it was.

Emily was lost in thought as they rounded the corner. She was wrong in her estimation that the Restricted Ward was a tomblike place, dead and empty. Voices did not catch her attention, not when there was a self-commentary already running through her mind. But suddenly she felt Crane's grip tighten on her arm and she looked up from the view she had been staring at for the last few minutes – her black leather shoes on the scoffed tile floor. Emily saw a nurse in her mid-50s with graying hair whispering close to Crane by the nurses' station.

"We have a situation, Jimmy Fessanti," the nurse said.

"The usual," asked Crane, his voice unconcerned.

"More violent, behavior is more erratic."

"Perhaps an increase in medication is in order," Crane said, pondering the possibilities.

Suddenly there was a harsh scream and a shout of men's voices followed by swearing from the orderlies and a patient.

"Let me, go," shrieked the patient. "I have _business_ with my doctor."

Suddenly the patient, clearly one of the criminals from the neon orange jumpsuit he was wearing, spied Crane and a sadistic smile appeared on his lips, revealing he was missing several teeth.

"_Crane_," he spat, as if it was the filthiest curse imaginable. "We do have business! It's payback! Falcone didn't put me in here to be your lil' lab rat! It's going to end! I'm going to drink your blood, Crane!"

"And how is this different from last week, James Fessanti," Crane sighed, appearing bored.

"It's _Jimmy, Jimmy Fessanti_ dammit, Crane! Don't they teach you nothing at that fancy university you went to! No matter! You're dead!"

The orderlies who were holding him obviously had loosened their grip when he stopped struggling to talk with Crane. In a violent lunge, Fessanti crashed into the medication table, swiped a hypodermic and began charging toward Crane.

"They always go for the hypodermic," Crane muttered.

Emily was frozen, terrified as the criminal was just a feet away from them with a sharp needle. She was no idiot who never read the papers either; she knew who this was – a notorious serial killer once employed by Carmine Falcone. She gripped Crane's arm hard, digging her nails into his white coat. How could Crane be so calm now, just seconds from death? _Why was he doing nothing?_ Then Crane slowly, deliberately raised his right arm. _His right arm?_

Emily wasn't expecting the reaction it had on Fessanti. His shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he skidded to a sudden halt just a few feet away from them. The criminal was panting, his eyes wild and mad in desperation, fear and hatred. He turned his hungry eyes toward Emily and licked his lips.

"What is this, Crane? You have a girlfriend, now? Coming to show her the animals you keep at your personal zoo? Now I think I have the advantage. You wouldn't gas me, Crane, not in front of her."

"She already knows about what I do," Crane said, his voice edged with raw ice. "Don't think today will be any different."

"Oh, is that so? Well, I think today is different." He took a few steps closer, raising the syringe. "I think today is different, because today you want to impress her and seeing me writhing on the floor screaming won't get you into the sack with her, will it, _Crane_?"

Crane suddenly turned his aiming arm away from Fessanti and as the criminal saw this as a clear sign to lunge at him with the needle, Fessanti suddenly felt three tiny syringes plunge into his back. The orderlies had shot him with the tranquilizer gun. Fessanti's eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to his knees and fought against the drugs for a few moments before reluctantly collapsing to the cold white tile floor.

"No! It's not over," Fessanti gasped, his fingers digging into the floor. "I will – kill – you – Crane."

His eyes drooped closed and Emily heard the sound of harsh squeaking as the orderlies dragged Fessanti feet first down the hallway and out of sight.

* * *

The first signs of autumn – a bite in the wind, a chilliness in the air that wasn't present just a few nights ago – lingered in the evening air. Although the street lights glowed warmly along the darkening street, somehow there was no warmth in them this time and no comfort in the familiar sights and sounds. Emily trembled, clutching her arms while Crane remained close to her. 

_(You have lost her, Jonathan, _whispered Scarecrow._ Today's visit to the asylum was too much. She suspects something. Now she really will leave you – unless you let me take over.)_

_You shall take over **nothing**,_ thought Crane.

_(She shall leave you and you will be alone, all alone once again_, Scarecrow said. _Is that what you want, Jonathan? Is losing her worth your pride? Unlike you, Jonathan, I have no scruples. I play to win.)_

_You win at any cost, but sometimes the price is not worth it. You have yet to realize that ScareCrow._

Crane always emphasized the "crow" part of Scarecrow when he was getting very annoyed with him.

_(You weak, stupid fool! What is there if not to win? If not to be the most powerful, to have all tremble beneath you? If anyone is to learn anything it is you!)_

He turned to Emily and noticed her eyes now gazing at the pavement, no longer looking at him anymore. Her lips were pressed together with her thumbs rubbing her bare arms repetitively.

"You're so quiet," Crane said. "Although, after today, I wouldn't blame you. It was foolish of me to take you to Arkham, even at your insistence."

"No, Jon. Remember, it was I who wanted to see it. And now I have."

Emily gazed down the street, her eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and regret.

"You have such courage for working there, Jon, but I don't see how –."

Emily paused, her eyes turning to the pavement briefly, before reluctantly meeting his gaze.

"What don't you see," he urged.

"I don't see how you can do it, Jon, working there day after day. And that attempt on your life! Does that happen often there?"

Crane paused, hesitant to tell Emily the truth in a way, but her warm, chocolate brown eyes gazed back at him, expecting the truth. She wouldn't expect anything less from him and he was determined not to lie to her – not now.

"It happens often enough," Crane said. "It's to be expected in that line of work."

"Oh, God, Jon! That's why you've changed so much! How could you not! How awful it must be!"

In Emily's fear for him, she clutched his left arm and he felt a sudden thrill pass through his body. Initially it was more shock; it had been so long since Crane had been touched by anyone lovingly. He was used to violent outburst and attempted beatings by patients, but a sudden loving touch almost made him jerk back as though her hand were fire. But instead Crane froze at her touch and allowed the warmth to slowly fill him with that gentle, simple caress, which would have been almost nothing to anyone else.

"Please don't worry about me, Emily. I'm quite used to it by now and I have taken many measures to protect myself at Arkham. I am more concerned about you and the possible psychological repercussions today's visit will cause you."

"I was scared – well terrified honestly. But now that I'm safe, I'm left with so many questions – questions I just can't seem to answer."

"Such as?"

"Why did you raise your arm when that man attacked us?"

An uncomfortable silence settled heavily upon them again like the other night. Crane gazed at her, for a moment unsure, vulnerable. He wanted to keep her innocence, to keep her oblivious to the evil that he committed, to the influence of Scarecrow.

_But how can I continue to lie? She will discover somehow._

_(If you would use the Fear Toxin on her this night you would remove all worry and doubt,_ cried Scarecrow. _Why are you being so stupid and weak? USE IT!)_

The wind blew cold down the street and Emily trembled, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her apartment was just a few blocks away down the lantern-lit street. Crane turned to her, his face half-lit, half in shadow.

"Here, we really should get you to your apartment before you catch a cold," Crane said.

He idly took off his suit jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. Gratefully she accepted it and enjoyed the immediate warmth, then saw the glint of cold steel gleaming in the lamp light. In surprise and shock, Emily turned her eyes toward him from the cage of steel surrounding his right arm.

"This is what I was hesitant to show you, but this is why they can't harm me," Crane said, almost proudly. "This genius device was invented by Elliott Maccabee, a fellow student I studied with at Gotham University, now an inventor for Gotham Space Age Industries."

He held it up to her so she could get a better look and indeed the device was functionally simple, a marvel of steel craftsmanship and appeared incredibly lightweight. Two rings of steel surrounded Crane's forearm, one at the wrist and the other slightly below the elbow, fastened by twin rods connecting them. Two thin tubes snaked from the contraption to a pair of sleek aluminum cylinders filled with highly compressed gas fastened to his belt, which also were concealed by his suit jacket. Crane turned his palm upward and revealed the trigger mechanism, which was activated by a barely noticeable thumb switch that could easily be concealed within his coat sleeve. Emily saw a red triangular lever near the switch and pointed to it.

"What does that do?"

"That regulates which cylinder releases the sleeping gas – whether it is right, left – middle indicates both, or if I place it downward it's in a lock position."

"That is amazing – but it only fires sleeping gas?" Emily paused for a moment, remembering the scene with the criminal. "Then why did Fessanti say he'd be screaming if you shot him with it?"

"Fessanti is slightly allergic to sleeping gas, but it is necessary to gas him when he behaves in such violent outbursts."

"Then, why did you turn you arm aside when he was so close to hurting you, Jon?"

Crane gazed at Emily a moment, then at the gleaming cold steel that encased his forearm like a cage.

"He had gotten too close. I didn't want you to be affected by the gas if I released it on him."

Emily nodded, but her eyes were distant. He walked a few steps toward her, remembering back on the smiling, laughing girl he once knew so long ago in high school. She turned toward him and he saw a tear running down her cheek.

"Emily, no," he whispered.

"Oh, Jon," she sobbed.

She was trembling in his arms, trembled even though she had the warmth of the coat and he held her close. Her soft hair brushed against his cheek and he couldn't help but relish the feeling of embracing again.

"It was so horrible," she cried.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

He waited for her sobs to die down and at last Emily turned her head up toward him, her eyes red and wet with tears. Tenderly he brushed the wetness from her cheeks and could feel her hot breath upon his lips. He gazed deep into those eyes, eyes he once felt he could lose himself in forever, eyes he felt he was losing himself in again. He looked at the full redness of her lips, the tender softness of her throat. Gently he caressed her throat with his hand and felt her hot breath quicken upon his cheek.

"Jon," she whispered.

There was a silence, a moment of hovering stillness between the two of them when they seemed to hold their breath and they held each other's gaze.

"Yes, Emily," he whispered.

He pressed his lips to hers, pouring his desires, longings and passion into a kiss. He heard her moan, felt his heart pounding in his chest and her hands clutching his back.

_Oh, Emily, I've wanted to do this for so long. If only you knew – if only you knew how long I have waited._

**

* * *

**

**Blodeuedd: **I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter with Jonathan tossing and turning in his hour of self-doubt. I must say you are master at dealing with that your stories. And yes, you made good on your promise to post a new chapter. It was worth the wait!


	5. Unexpected Visitors

If he didn't know better, Dr. Jonathan Crane would have thought he was a different person, a new man. Although he was in the same dreary office, the sunlight seemed brighter as it streamed through the bar-lined window. He turned to the seemingly endless files of lost cause cases and flipped through them. A day ago he had despaired of ever helping them, but today there was a glimmer of hope in his mind. Today the future didn't seem so bleak.

_(Jonathan, you're acting like a schoolboy in love. Really I expected more of you than this!)_

He continued madly writing notes on some of the cases, jotting down ideas on possible cures for patients who had been, up until now, completely unresponsive to outside stimuli or traditional therapies he had been using.

_(Maybe I have misplaced my faith in you, Jonathan. I have great plans for you – for us – and you waste your time on idle fancies, this girl and these patients. Ah, no, Jonathan. We are to be Lords of Gotham, not its servants and not this girl's plaything!)_

_I am no one's plaything, Scarecrow, if you've noticed by now. And you were wrong about Emily and don't wish to admit to defeat. _

_(That is not love, Jonathan. She is doing that just to satisfy her desires. She will use you for her personal enjoyment and then throw you away. You never found out what happened between her and Kevin.)_

Crane ignored Scarecrow, continuing his note keeping and readying himself to leave the safety and comfort of his office for his morning routine of making the rounds at Arkham.

_(Jonathan, you may choose to ignore me now, but I don't want you to get hurt. You have been hurt far too many times before.)_

_No, Scarecrow, you just want to use me. I know you too well. That's the one benefit I have that you are in my mind. You may know my thoughts – but I also know yours._

_(Don't flatter yourself, _Scarecrow whispered ominously. _You don't know **all** my thoughts.)_

And then Scarecrow went eerily silent. Crane waited almost for Scarecrow to continue on his incessant tangent, as was normal for him, but instead it was quiet, as though he was either giving him the silent treatment or plotting something sinister.

_Well let him, I could use the peace and enjoy what small moment of happiness at this point_, Crane thought.

He stepped up from his desk, slipped on his pure white doctor's coat and was almost ready to step out into the madness that awaited him outside that door, but then there was a slight click from the speakercom and a nurse's voice piped through:

"_Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm sorry to bother you. It seems you have an unexpected visitor here."_

Crane pursed his lips, his eyes turned cold.

"And who is it, may I ask," said Crane, contempt slowly seeping into his voice. "I know it can't be Falcone this time."

"_A man here called Eric Syler. He doesn't have an appointment, but he's making scene. Should I call security?"_

"No, by all means, show the man in. I think I shall look forward to this."

Crane slyly smiled and removed his doctor's coat, placing it back on the brass hook and planting himself in the leather chair behind the desk before a thunderous knock came at the door.

"Come in, Mr. Syler," Crane said smoothly.

He watched as Syler jerked the door open with such force as if the door was a knife he wished to jab through Crane's heart. Today he was not wearing a black suit, but a pale red button-down shirt and khaki pants. His receding hair was slicked back and he had a hungry, venomous look in his black eyes.

"I'm glad at least you had the guts to see me," Syler said.

He took a seat on the chair opposite the desk to Crane without an invitation. Crane was fascinated by his anger and the brashness of Syler as well as what secret this man must harbor in order to hate him so.

"As you see, Mr. Syler, I am a man of my word. But I am curious – a curiosity which has not been satiated, I dare say since the symposium – as to the reasoning behind your slanderous allegations of me."

"Allegations? Look around you, Crane! All it takes is a walk through your nuthouse to see what a state it's in. A state you personally put it in!"

With the last sentence Syler fiercely jabbed his finger at Crane, his dark eyes flashing at him. Crane slowly leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his suit jacket waist.

"And pray, Mr. Syler, tell me, why the interest in my 'nuthouse'?"

"Oh, no, Crane. Don't you turn this around into a personal issue! Don't you try and start picking at my brain like your poor patients! You won't do that to me!"

"Do you suffer from paranoia, Mr. Syler?"

"SHUT UP, CRANE!"

A slow smile spread across Crane's lips and Syler trembled with barely contained animosity.

"Listen, Mr. Syler, I can't help you if you don't tell me what exactly is bothering you."

"Arkham is a blight on Gotham City, a mass torture chamber, Hell on Earth!"

"Now that's a little extreme – even for me," Crane said coolly. "Although everyone is entitled to their opinion. However I sense there is something or someone personally involved, perhaps a patient, a patient you know? Perhaps I can help you?"

"Oh, no. I'm not telling you anything," Syler cried, his face beginning to sweat.

"Then unfortunately I can't help you. I am sorry, just when I thought we were making some genuine headway too. Would you like to be escorted out now?"

Crane stood up from his chair and reached out his hand to conclude the conversation, but Syler would not meet his gaze and remained fixed in his chair.

"Then perhaps there is something else you wish to discuss," Crane asked. "Maybe a patient housed in this asylum, a patient I might be able to help?"

"You've done enough damage already, Crane," Syler hissed.

Syler turned his dark eyes up toward Crane and they were filled with venom.

"Tom Syler, does that ring a bell?"

"I'm afraid it does not. Please refresh my memory," Crane insisted.

"Everyone was talking about your unconventional methods, you're so-called 'miracle cures.' Well I brought in Tom, my brother. He had attempted suicide before."

"Ah, yes. I am beginning to remember now," Crane said, his eyes distant. "Suicide cases always are difficult and bear in mind, Mr. Syler, there is no 'cure' for suicidal patients, just therapy and –"

"He died under you're care! It's you're fault he died! You failed, Crane! You murdered him!"

"He was a suicidal patient, Mr. Syler, all I could do was –"

"Damn you, Crane! DAMN YOU TO HELL!"

Slyer slowly rose from his chair and shakily yanked out a pistol from his khaki pant's pocket. His sweaty hand trembled as he held the weapon point blank at Crane.

"I'm here to avenge my brother, Crane. I'm here to avenge his murder. May God forgive me."

Crane stared into the frightened, wild eyes of Syler, keeping his gaze locked and mesmerized much like a viper does to a mouse. Slowly Crane raised his arm, as though to reveal he had no weapon, that he was defenseless.

"Take it easy, Slyer, take it easy, it's okay," he said in a soothing, calm tone.

"You let him die," Syler cried, tears running down his face.

Crane's face suddenly set to a cool mask and his blue eyes turned to crystalline ice. A puff of gas unexpectedly hit Syler full in the face from Crane's sleeve and in the obscuring haze a gunshot tore through the room. Early morning sunlight filtered through the haze; there was a pregnant stillness after the shot before he staggered a few footsteps and collapsed heavily to the floor.

* * *

Dr. Steven Westmeyer stood by the nurses' station and watched as the morning routine was busily underway at Arkham Asylum. As much as he admired what his longtime colleague and former roommate Dr. Jonathan Crane was doing at the asylum, it was far too hectic for his taste. He had a cozy and well-run private psychiatry practice catering to the elite of Gotham City. Crane often didn't mince words with Westmeyer that he was helping those who needed help the least – the wealthy. Westmeyer, on the other hand, was quick to point out Crane had his own private practice apart from Arkham, which also had a few wealthy clients. 

"That is for personal reasons," Crane would quickly add.

"You mean for money," Westmeyer would say. "What you're doing at Arkham is great and noble, Jonathan. But you have to pay the bills, just like me."

Now Westmeyer was observing Jonathan's 'great and noble' intentions first hand this morning as nurses guided patients through the hallways, some with severe dementia, other with vacant eyes, others trembling and with erratic behavior.

_No, I'm glad I'm not working here_, Westmeyer thought.

He turned back to the nurse filling out paperwork at the desk.

"Do you know how much longer Dr. Crane will be busy with his patient?"

"It's not a patient, it's a visitor," said the nurse. "And I really don't know, Dr. Westmeyer. I suggest you take a seat."

Westmeyer looked at his gold watch and observed the ticking second's hand. He had hoped to catch his old friend early in the day before the first of his morning appointments; he didn't have much time to spare in his busy schedule. But if he missed him today, so be it. Truly it was Westmeyer's fault for making this surprise visit; he should have called to let Jonathan know he was coming.

Westmeyer picked up his leather briefcase and began to turn to walk not for the long row of waiting area seats, but the exit when a sharp gunshot rang out. Nurses, doctors and orderlies in that moment froze in shock, not knowing where the gunshot came from or – worse – if the gun was in the hands of a lunatic patient. Westmeyer suddenly, without even thinking, ran in the direction opposite of the exit.

"No, Dr. Westmeyer! You are not authorized," screamed the nurse from the station.

But he didn't care. If there was one thing he remembered clearly from his time at school with Jonathan was that danger somehow always found him. Jonathan drew perilous situations to himself like a magnet and he never seemed to care. He always remained cool and collected, even flaunted it somehow. There was a saying that circulated in the psychiatric department at Gotham University while Jonathan was there:

_Jonathan Crane, the man without fear._

Westmeyer always added something else to that slogan:

_Jonathan Crane, the idiot I had to keep getting out of trouble because he was too much of a fool to be getting into dangerous situations!_

He was now running at full speed as he rounded the corner, knocking a few of the stunned nurses and some doctors out of the way. He knew where Jonathan's office was by heart after visiting it several times over the last couple of years.

At last, panting, his lungs burning, he skidded to a halt as he saw the thick maple door with a brass plaque emblazoned with the engraved name of **_Dr. Jonathan Crane, Head Psychiatric Physician_**. Westmeyer briefly knocked, but when there was no response, he grabbed the door handle and shoved it open.

The room was dark in contrast to the bright, fluorescently lit hallway outside. The thick curtains had been drawn over the windows and for a moment Westmeyer thought he saw nothing in the darkness as he took a few tentative steps inside, but then he saw the faint outline of a crouching figure looming over a prostrate man. The figure seemed to slip something off its head and to smooth back its rough, scraggly hair.

"Who are you," the figure demanded.

"Westmeyer, I'm Dr. Westmeyer. Jonathan, is that – you?"

"I am Scare- NO! I'm sorry, Steven. I just was shot at. I am not in my right mind."

"Jonathan, how horrible. Let me call the police."

"No, I'll be fine in a moment. Just give me a moment."

In the darkness Westmeyer strained to see what Crane was doing. Whatever he pulled from his head and was holding in his hand he now hid somewhere in the shadows. Slowly, from the faint outline in the darkness, Crane stood up and flicked on the lights. What Westmeyer saw in the glaring lights shocked him. On the floor was the man he clearly remembered as the troublemaker from the psychiatry symposium. His eyes were closed and for all purposes he looked dead. A gun lay upon the floor, just a few inches from his lifeless fingers.

"Is he dead, Jonathan," Westmeyer asked.

"No, unconscious."

"And you, Jonathan? Are you wounded?"

Jonathan Crane's face was ashen; his normally bright eyes were dull and pale.

"No, the shot was close, but not close enough. The bullet hole is in the window frame. I closed the curtains – not wishing to look at it."

"Jonathan, we should get both of you to the hospital and call the police."

Crane shook his head, his eyes fixed on the unconscious Syler.

"No, I will be fine and he will be too. He's sick, Steven, sick, just like his brother, but sick in another way. I can cure him too. I will cure him. I won't fail like I failed with his brother."

"Jonathan, you need medical attention and most importantly you need rest! You nearly were killed today!"

"Mental illness doesn't stop for 'rest,' Steven. You should know that by now."

Gently Westmeyer took his old friend by the hand and began to lead him out of the room.

"First I think we need to get you out of this place," said Westmeyer.

"There were some things he did say that were true though, Syler. About my failure. I am a failure in some respects, Steven."

"We need to get you some help, Jonathan. First let's get you some help."

They both entered the corridor and nurses and doctors alike started pushing into them with questions. Dr. Crane suddenly changed in appearance, adopting a cool, in control appearance for them all.

"Do not panic anyone. It was not a gunshot, just a high-pressure oxygen tank that exploded. Nothing to worry about please. Return to your normal routines everyone ladies and gentlemen."

Almost in disappointment the curious crowd departed. Now the two doctors were left alone again and Crane began walking with Westmeyer. Only when they were halfway there did Westmeyer realize they were not heading for the exit.

"Jonathan, where are we going? I thought we were going to the hospital and that you were going to call the police on Syler?"

"I told you I was a failure, Westmeyer, and this proves it."

Westmeyer was about to insist that they abandon this ridiculous adventure when Jonathan clearly was a success in many respects, but somehow curiosity was preventing him being the good friend. He wanted to see what Crane's dirty secret was if he truly was a failure in at least one case.

Crane stopped at Room 221 and paused before unclipping his ID card and slipping it through the key lock. Crane opened the door for his friend and then entered himself. The room and the patient was such a familiar sight to Crane now; and every time he entered it seemed his heart grew heavier.

Crane turned toward the patient and sat in the chair opposite her, gently taking her hand.

"It's been three years now," Crane sighed. "Three years since she's spoken anything to me."

"You can't blame this on yourself, Jonathan. It's not your fault what happened to your mother."

"It's my fault I can't cure her. For all my so-called genius and 'miracle cures' what good is it if I can't cure her?"

Jonathan gazed at his mother staring blankly back at him, not acknowledging her son now sat before her, not realizing her son's life nearly had been snuffed out just a moment before. He gazed at her nearly white, tangled hair, which once was such a rich brown and at the haphazard scratch scars that marked her cheek as she imagined phantoms coming and tearing at her face in the dark hours of the night. Jonathan fought back the tears in his eyes.

"Jonathan, it's not your fault," Westmeyer whispered. "Now it's time to get you some help."

But suddenly a cell phone rang in Crane's breast pocket. He slipped it out and held it to his ear, finally ending his call with:

"No problem, I'll be there."

Crane turned his eyes to Westmeyer with a bitter smile upon his lips.

"I'm afraid my 'help' will have to come at another time, Steven. It turns out that she-devil Rachel Dawes also is coming to pay me a visit today and I must be ready."

* * *

**  
Not Human: **Hey! I'm glad to see you again and thanks for the review. I noticed you have a couple of people clamoring for a sequel or at least another chapter to your story. May I also chime in and say I'd like a continuation to Jane's adventures? Also please post on the forum when you can. We miss you! hugs

**fightdirrty: **Oh, I rock? Thank you very much! I don't know if I can get more kisses in, but I'll try. ; )

**MyOtherPenName: **Thanks! I'm glad you think this fiction is working out well and better yet that Emily isn't a Mary Sue (I really didn't want her to be). I definitely have more surprises in store.

**Blodeuedd:** If anyone can masterfully pull off a romantic scene with Crane you can do it with even more grace and poetry than I ever could. But thank you so much for such high praise! It means so much receiving such excellent reviews from such a gifted author.


	6. First Prey

Mr. Syler groggily opened his eyes in a darkened room, not knowing whether it was still day or night. The thick curtains still were drawn in Dr. Crane's office and memories of what last happened just a few hours seemed but a blur in his sleep-addled mind.

_Where am I? Why am I here? What just happened?_

Then the blurriness died away and focused to crystal clarity on to the nearest object before him – an 8 mm pistol. Suddenly everything flashed before him, buying the cheap pistol on the corner shop, Harvey's Bargain Firearms just a few blocks from Arkham Asylum. Syler had bought it on a whim, a sudden impulse, an overwhelming desire to avenge his brother's untimely death at the hands of madman doctor Crane who had been tormenting and destroying the lives of countless patients for years under his so-called "treatments." It would end here and now this afternoon at Syler's hand with his gun. Really he was doing everyone at Arkham Asylum a favor, whether they knew it or not. But something went wrong, terribly wrong. Now what was it? Syler strained his memory, rubbing his hands over his face as though it would massage the memory into his mind.

A blinding cloud of smoke, a gunshot fire, whether Crane was wounded or dead Syler could hardly say – judging from the lack of body and police Syler guessed not.

_But why leave me my gun? Crane are you playing mind games with me?_

Syler angrily grabbed the pistol and shoved it into his pant's pocket. Briefly his smoothed back his greased hair and surveyed the room. The small glowing digital clock on Crane's desk indicated it was 10:27 p.m.

_I was out for over 12 hours! No matter, I will find Crane somehow, some way. He must return to Arkham or this office. Knowing him he might still be here – why else would he leave me on the floor except to save me for one of his twisted experiments!_

Suddenly, Syler heard some shouting through the door and for a moment he felt it best to stay hidden in the safety of the office, but then curiosity got the better of him and he realized he still had a weapon.

_If anyone is to make the rules at Arkham tonight it will be me!_

Syler shoved the office door open and a billowing cloud of smoke rolled toward him, burning his eyes. An alarm shrieked and flashed red, nurses and orderlies shoved him roughly aside in their mad race for the exit. Somewhere, deep in the monstrous bowels of the asylum a several small detonations went off, probably muffled by thick brick walls and heavy steel doors caving under the blasts. Syler stood in mute shock, the gun hanging limp and near useless from his hand as he stood in the midst of the bedlam.

Now a few wild shrieks came, gleeful at their release from confinement. As the smoke cleared, Syler saw the forms of patients in loose Arkham gowns racing toward him, their hair tangled, their eyes manic. Syler raised his gun, his hand trembling.

"D-don't touch me! I have a gun," Syler cried.

But the patients raced past him, too delighted at their sudden, new-found freedom to care about a man with a gun. Other patients came, running past him toward the exit and he watched, dumbfounded and powerless. But suddenly the patients suddenly stopped and there was a stillness in the hazy hallway. An ominous voice cut though the silence with the edge of knife:

"Why the long face, Syler? Isn't this what you wanted? That the patients of Arkham go free."

"Y-yes," Syler replied. "But not like this. Who are you, a cop?"

A figure walked close to him, tall, menacing in his steps, the long, torn coat sweeping behind him.

"You saw me not long ago in the shadows, not long ago in your nightmares. I am your worst fears. I am what you see as you toss in a phantasm of terror! I am the wraith you cannot see … I am Scarecrow."

In that brief moment Syler saw Dr. Crane, only it no longer was him somehow. Gone was the sharp gray suit, the fashionable glasses, the cool, professional persona. A straightjacket instead hung upon him, torn into a makeshift coat, which hung upon him like pale Reaper's cloak. Those pale blue eyes no longer held ice, but fiery madness and flickering shadow.

"You are nothing of the sort," Syler replied weakly. "Now stop right there or I'll shoot."

Scarecrow stopped but instead of looking terrified, he only smiled maliciously and held up his hands as though delighted in some sort of new diabolical game.

"Shoot me twice in one day? Oh, no. You already had your fun with Scarecrow. Now it's Scarecrow's turn to play."

Scarecrow took a step forward, still smiling, although his eyes now gazed at Syler hungrily as a cat views a tasty, fat mouse.

Syler hand shook terribly, but squeezed the trigger and fired.

_Click._

Syler gazed at the gun in panic.

_Empty! No! It can't be empty! It can't, _Syler thought frantically._ I filled all the chambers this morning. It must be because of the one bullet I fired. That must be it. Fire it again!_

_Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!_

_Oh, God, no! No! No! **NO!**_

Scarecrow swiftly grasped at Syler throat like a lunging cobra and closed about it like a vise.

"Oh! Are you missing something? You really don't think Scarecrow would leave his prey with a loaded gun would you?"

"Please," Syler wheezed.

"Be grateful, you will have the special privilege of being Scarecrow's first victim in the new reign – the Reign of Terror. And what a great honor it is!"

Scarecrow briefly released Syler and enjoyed him choking and gasping for breath on the floor before gazing at his forearm and the contraption, which held the deadly toxin.

"Now you have two options, Syler. As my first victim, I give you the special honor of choosing. I can give you a smaller dose – and you'll be screaming for hours until permanent madness – I like that by the way. Or I can give you a concentrated dose and you'll still be screaming and writhing in agony, but you'll die quicker."

Scarecrow crouched close toward Syler, his blue eyes hungry and bright with anticipation.

"So what will be," Scarecrow demanded.

"F-ck you," screamed Syler.

He lunged at Scarecrow for a punch, but he was considerably slower and less limber than the younger, lankier Crane and he jumped easily out of Syler's reach.

"Wrong answer," hissed Scarecrow. "Fine! I'll choose the toxin for you!"

Scarecrow turned his eyes down to dial up the toxin, but Syler already was scrambling to his feet and running for his life. Scarecrow's eyes turned up at his fleeing prey.

"No you don't," hissed Scarecrow. "You're mine! You're life belongs to me! How dare you try to kill me before my reign begins! You will pay! You will pay with your life!"

In a speed Syler barely thought possible, he heard Scarecrow's feet swiftly approach behind him and those long fingers twist into his hair, yanking him back.

"You belong to me," Scarecrow cried. _"You are mine!"_

Syler closed his eyes, expecting the fatal toxin at any moment to envelop him, but instead he heard the hallway fill with the sound of voices, of people running, of shoving, of shoes squeaking against the floor tile. Syler turned and saw even Scarecrow gazing in shock and anger at the approaching crowd of escaping convicts racing toward them – racing towards the exit.

"Fine way to begin my reign," Scarecrow grumbled and released Syler just moments before the convicts collided with them.

Syler barely managed to throw himself into the safety of the open office to escape being trampled by what seemed like an endless stream of orange-clad convicts flowing into the streets of Gotham City. When the last of them were gone, Syler tentatively gazed out into the hallway. It was completely empty. Gotham City now was filled with the worst convicts imaginable and the madman Scarecrow was among them now.

* * *

**Blodeuedd:** Thank you for such glowing praise! This sequel is such a luxury in some ways. I had to abandon some concepts and characters in _Shadows of the Mind_ because they were not necessary for the story and could have slowed the story down. Now with the background and stage set, I feel I can now launch into something even more daring. But as for your story, I am even more curious what is about to happen because a new chapter hasn't been posted in awhile. Must be something amazing indeed.

**Firefly4000: **Oh, a new reader! Welcome and hope you enjoy the story. Feel free to post more reviews as you are inspired. : )


	7. Reign of Terror

Screams mixed and swirled with the Fear Toxin, which now crept silently through the streets, seeping into every apartment, dark back alley, car and slum. And in its wake shrieks followed and a surge of chaos that swelled like a tide breaking upon the sheer rocks of Madness. Ah, to Scarecrow this was a delight. At last his reign had begun and he would be the Lord of Terror. All would cringe in his wake!

Scarecrow gripped the reins of the sleek black horse, which fidgeted tensely at the chaos and screaming that surrounded this equine beauty. It was an easy matter for Scarecrow to rip the terrified mounted police off this stallion and take it for his own. Already Scarecrow relished the power of riding such a magnificent, powerful animal, its taut sinews, its glistening midnight coat, its speed just waiting to be unleashed.

A car smashed dramatically into a bus, children began to tear at each other and a few men began to pummel each other senseless in fright. Scarecrow smiled beneath his mask and urged his stallion into the swirling clouds of toxin. The screams filled that dark night, thick with pain, suffering and soon death – and Scarecrow road through it all as the harbinger of what was to come, a pale rider of the Apocalypse.

But through this suffering and mayhem, through the ragged holes Scarecrow peered out from, Jonathan Crane, somewhere, deep within his mind, gazed out from those mad blue eyes. Almost like when Scarecrow first emerged and tortured Stan, Crane now was a spectator, but it was much worse now, for he had lost control.

Like dominos that not only topple but somehow shatter, no longer able to be picked up and stacked again, a turn of events went terribly wrong from the moment he met with Rachel Dawes. He had expected their meeting to be brief and simple, that he would brush her off, tell her what he told the judge, that Falcone was intuitionally insane and send that harpy on her way.

But he had been a fool, he should have known better, that she would complicate things, right on the eve Crane's employer, Ra's Al Ghul, was sure to set things in motion, one way or another. He couldn't risk anymore complications and that meant Rachel had to be put out of the way – and fast, just like Falcone.

The Fear Toxin had worked perfectly, but then Crane hadn't anticipated the wild card, the one unexpected move in his meticulously planned game of chess: the Bat-man. He moved swiftly and Crane's confidence and over reliance on his own toxin had been his own undoing – and had been used against him. Crane felt the toxin burning his throat and enter his lungs, his heart speed up and his mind suddenly growing frantic. Crane fought to stay calm, even as the Bat-man had transformed into a demon. As his terror grew, he could feel Scarecrow clawing from the depths of his mind, clawing to the surface of his consciousness, gaining in power and strength.

_Just hold out, just a little bit more_, Crane thought.

But Scarecrow's harsh laugh echoed in his mind, overwhelming him and Crane could feel his tenuous grasp on sanity begin to slip, slip through is fingers his sand swiftly running through a sieve.

As the Bat-man threw him against the wall, and Crane felt the blackness of unconsciousness nearing him, he knew with terrible certainty that when he awoke he would no longer be Jonathan Crane, but Scarecrow.

Now Jonathan Crane gazed back, helpless, a spectator as he watched Scarecrow gallop through Gotham City on this night of his Reign of Terror. He wasn't certain who he was chasing now, but he seemed intent on his prey, whoever it was.

_Not who,_ Scarecrow thought._ I'm just finishing the job you failed at and in the process will have my first prey of my Reign!_

Crane gazed intently through Scarecrow's eyes and saw the woman with the dark brown hair and a small boy.

_Rachel Dawes!_

_And now she will die, but not before she first fears me, _Scarecrow thought.

The horse lunged forward in a fierce surge of equine power, the muscles rippling beneath the gleaming black coat, its hooves clattering harsh and sharp against the damp, cold asphalt.

"Crane," Rachel cried in shock and horror.

Crane struggled to use his voice, but his throat was silent and he was pushed even further back into the depths of his own mind by the overpowering Scarecrow.

"No, Scarecrow!"

Dramatically the stallion reared, its black gleaming hooves cutting through the toxic air.

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself!"

Crane noticed Rachel lifting something in her hand, pointing it directly at them.

_Scarecrow, I think Rachel has a gun._

_Shut up, Jonathan!_

"I'm here to he–"

Scarecrow's words were cut short by a blinding flash of brilliant light followed by burning pain and searing electricity. Scarecrow no longer spoke, he shrieked as the horse catapulted in panic down a dark street.

Sharp bursts of pain burned Scarecrow as the taser dug through the burlap mask and into his cheek. Faintly he realized he screamed as the taser kept sending burst after burst of electricity, lighting up his mask from the inside in an eerie glow. Faintly he could see smoke through the ragged eye holes of the mask. Through the haze of pain and swirling blackness that rapidly was swallowing all vision, Scarecrow viciously yanked at the wires and ripped it free from his flesh. A stinging pain followed as the needles came loose and it fell useless like twisting electric eels, still searching for a prey to shock upon the asphalt.

Scarecrow felt the warm wetness of blood upon his cheek and the burning pain from the wound, but a growing anger flared more deeply in his heart as he saw the lightening shocks of the taser flash a few more times upon the ground, then die out.

_Rachel, that b-tch! That damn b-tch! I will make her pay for this! Not only will she die and fear, she will **suffer**!_

Scarecrow tightened his grip on the reins of the horse as though it was the throat of Rachel Dawes and turned his murderous gaze down the wet, dark street. Screams still filled the air and people still ran and tore at each other in panic. But now it was not good enough, no longer good enough for Scarecrow. His reign no longer would be complete until Rachel Dawes was among them, screaming until her throat was raw and she was exhausted and sick from terror. His reign would not be complete until she was cringing in horror as she saw him approaching and knowing it would be her death. His reign would not be complete until the last of the life's spark dimmed from her eyes and her last breath was drawn from her lips.

In rage, Scarecrow screamed his horse onward and dug his heels into the stallion's sides. The midnight horse bolted down the black street, his teeth grinding against the steel bit, his hooves clattering swift and merciless. As the end of the street approached, Scarecrow could see Rachel standing surrounded by a multitude of convicts defenseless.

_Ah, what a sweet scene! I almost am tempted to watch, but she is mine!_

Scarecrow swiftly kicked the stallion's sides and as though the magnificent horse had suddenly sprouted wings as the mythic Pegasus, the black steed raced toward her with dizzying speed. Even the convicts stopped, stunned with their knives and makeshift weapons as the powerful steed threatened to trample them in seconds.

He now saw Rachel Dawes, her long brunette hair, her startled brown eyes, but something was not right. What could it be?

The stallion's sharp hooves clattered closer, closer, in any moment he would be on top of Rachel, trampling her beneath his weight.

Rachel turned directly toward him, her eyes wide in fear and shock.

But it wasn't Rachel.

_Oh, God, no! Emily! What are you doing here? Emily!_

Swiftly he grabbed the reins and harshly yanked them back. The stallion's head jerked back and he tossed it a moment, protesting the command, before he reared up, his fierce hooves cutting the air before heavily clattering back to the pavement.

* * *

Emily's heart was racing in terror. She had come from the safe, warm confines of her home when she heard there was a disturbance at Arkham Asylum – something about that strange vigilante the Batman. She had heard about some of the Batman's strange crime fighting heroics when he took down Falcone, but she never expected he would suddenly break into Arkham Asylum and what if he hurt Jonathan?

She raced as fast as she could from the east end of Gotham into the Narrows before the bridges had been raised, before the asylum had been emptied, before all hell broke loose and the terror began. Now Emily fought to keep control, but mostly in her own mind as a swarm of nightmares surrounded her and all she wanted to do was scream, scream and die just to make the terror stop.

Then as she stood, seeing Gotham City transform to hell, complete with people morphing into ghouls, demons and specters – with their skeletons showing through the transparent flesh – she realized a new hell was approaching. She looked and saw the demonic legions approaching, their fangs slavering, their claws sharp and ready to tear at her flesh. Emily turned her eyes to the heavens, heavens that swirled with a burning, acrid fog and darkness.

_Oh, God, please no. Please help! Please!_

Did she expect a saving angel? The police? The Batman? Emily really did not know and as the hellish legion approached closer, she really didn't care. But then she heard it, the sharp clattering of hooves and the arrival of a midnight black horse with a pale rider wearing a mask dripping with maggots.

_It is Death. Death has come to take me away._

But amazingly the demonic legion was not in league with Death. The demon closest to her lunged for her with a knife, but Death made his horse bolt and knocked the demon hard into the concrete wall. Death's horse was so close she could almost feel the animal's heaving breath, its hot coat. Was Death so real? Death raised his hand to the demonic legion and extended his hand out to them as if in a final announcement or sentence of doom.

"She is mine and there is nothing you can do to stop me! _Nothing!_ And remember all of you belong to me! Mind! Body! And Soul! And one day I shall come back to claim all of you! I shall take what is Mine!"

As she gazed at the demonic legion slowly moving away in fear from Death, she felt the strong, firm grip of Death upon her and her feet leaving the firm footing of the earth. Emily kicked and in that moment was almost tempted to scream.

_No! Wait! I'm not ready to die! I'm only 26! My life hasn't begun! Jon! I haven't seen Jon yet! I need to see if he's okay! No! Put me down!_

But that moment almost seemed sacred somehow and there was an eerie tomblike silence as the demonic legion retreated into shadow and mist, and Emily finally sat upon the horse of Death. She looked around at the filthy, wet, lonely street in sadness. There was much ugliness in Gotham City, but so much beauty too. Emily closed her eyes and pictured Jonathan, the softness of his touch, their last kiss together.

_Oh, Jon, will I ever see you again in the next life?_

Death, who was seated behind her, firmly wrapped his hand around her waist and she felt a sudden rush of wind in her face as the black horse thundered faster and faster. She wondered at any moment if they would become airborne and where would they go –Heaven or Hell.

The horse's hooves thundered faster beneath them and she could hear people's screams grow louder. Emily was hesitant to open her eyes, afraid of what horrors she might see. In her heart she believed they were still on Gotham and she longed for one last glance before she left this world for good, but another terrifying thought entered her mind, What if they just entered the Gates of Hell and these were souls in eternal torment?

_And I will be next._

Emily struggled in her mind against the onslaught of fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She struggled to push back such blind and overwhelming terror.

_No, I have done nothing wrong in my life. Nothing so evil to merit this! No! No!_

She began to squirm in Death's firm grip and felt a sudden increase in speed, the hooves clopping faster upon the pavement – then she felt they were climbing upward, as if up a steep slope. Her eyes shot open and she saw a familiar sight, the broad bridge that spanned the Gotham City River. She was amazed to see it still was down when all the others had been raised long ago and on the far end of the shore she saw a strange vehicle, like a black tank, madly racing away. No, she wasn't in Hell, but she couldn't help but feel stunned and frightened, because while this bridge was down, it wasn't remaining so for very long. The bridge gradually was being raised as the horse was frantically racing along its length.

"By order of the George O'Connell, Mayor of Gotham City, all Citizens of the Island of the Narrows are authorized to remain quarantined until further notice," boomed a voice from a bullhorn. "Stay where you are! Do not attempt to cross the bridge! It will be raised! Do not risk your life! I repeat, **Do not cross the bridge!**"

The bridge was growing increasingly steep and the river opened up beneath the bridge's break. The stallion's footing began to slip upon the damp asphalt pavement even as he struggled to maintain his speed. It seemed he would falter before they even would reach the bridge's center.

"No! Faster," screamed Death. "Go, Gunpowder! Run!"

As if mention of the horse's name suddenly leant him speed, the stallion bolted forward and thundered with fury and madness at the gaping bridge. This time Emily didn't care about decorum or appearance, she screamed as suddenly the steed leapt from the bridge's edge and they momentarily were airborne and the black, twinkling Gotham City River yawned wide beneath them. In those breathless moments, Emily had forgotten whether or not she thought she was dead; she was terrified she might die, or die again or whether or not she truly was dead.

The stallion Gunpowder landed hard onto the opposite bridge and wobbled precariously from the impact. Emily held her breath as she saw the frighteningly steep bridge below them and realized that at any moment Gunpowder could just as easily tumble – with them on his back – hundreds of feet below. Gunpowder snorted, scraping against the asphalt with his hooves, then just as quickly ran fiercely headlong down the terrifyingly steep bridge. The wind whistled and howled shrill in Emily's ears – or was she screaming again? She hardly knew anymore it seemed.

"By order of Mayor O'Connell, stop where you are," boomed the bullhorn, even louder and more menacingly than before. "We will shoot you! _This is your last warning!"_

But Death was unperturbed and why would he be? Indeed, Death would have nothing to lose and bullets could not harm him. But Emily couldn't help but cringe and tense as Gunpowder stormed headlong into what seemed like the jaws of death awaiting them. Up ahead was the entrance into mainland Gotham City – the end of the bridge – and several guards with rifles aimed straight at them. One of the guards turned their rifle skyward and the night briefly was lit with its fire. For a moment Gunpowder hesitated in his speed, pricked his ears and snorted, obviously startled.

"That was just a warning," trumpeted the bullhorn. "Next time the gunfire will be aimed at you if you do not stop immediately! Do not cross into mainland Gotham!"

But Death jabbed his heels into Gunpowder's sides and the stallion galloped hard toward the rifleman awaiting them. The steel of their rifles gleamed cold and merciless on that night as they cocked back the trigger and aimed. A train hummed overhead on the monorail. It was a common occurrence, one the guards were used to. But this night the sewers exploded with burning steam and toxic gas suddenly choked the rifleman's lungs, clouding their vision and senses.

Through the haze, the black stallion and the pale rider emerged through the obscuring mist. A rifleman looked up and saw no longer an idle trespasser, but a nightmare. Maggots dripped from the masked rider and the woman had transformed into a skeletal creature. The rifleman turned, groping for his gun, trying to kill these monstrosities, before they reached Gotham City to terrorize everyone. But then he heard a demonic scream and saw the black horse with fierce burning red eyes.

"Nice horsey. Nice, little horsey. I wouldn't harm you, honest," said the rifleman.

Just as his fingers almost were touching the rifle, the horse reared, his hooves gleaming sharp and dangerous in the toxic air. And from the stallion's flaring nostrils a plume of fire burst toward the rifleman. The rifleman cringed, covering his head as he shrieked in a high-pitched girlish scream, certain now his hair would be aflame and his clothes blackening and burning from his body.

Gunpowder, as if satisfied with the rifleman's cowardice, shook his head proudly and returned his forelegs to the earth. Behind them was a murmur of frightened voices and figures emerged from the mist. Emily noticed they were the rifleman and they still appeared armed.

"Run, Gunpowder," Death screamed.

Death hit the stallion with the flat of his hand while digging his heels into the steed's belly and Emily felt her stomach turning as they bolted headlong into the swirling mist and chaos that lurked before them as the train rushed headlong before them. The sewers continued to erupt and a cloud of obscuring toxic gas billowed before them. People coughed and then screamed as new horrors unfolded before their eyes.

One woman tore at her hair, another man rushed headlong into traffic, causing a bus to steer out of control and crash into a hydrant. As the train raced along on its deadly course, one manhole shot from a sewer with such speed that it smashed through a window. Glass twinkled like hard, sharp stars before it fell down to earth. For at terrible moment Emily screamed in terror as she saw the glass as tiny daggers she was unable to escape from as they pierced her flesh. But then the knives were gone, but in that instant they seemed as real as these people walking the streets with glowing red eyes and twisted features.

Death desperately was trying to maneuver Gunpowder as the cars swerved and crashed, and people swarmed them and tried to claw at the horse. And more and more were the "roadblocks" – overturned cars, swarming mobs of crazed people and mangled, twisted wreckage. Gunpowder snorted, his breathing growing more tired and labored at this frenzied pace and swarming hysteria. But as Death steered through this nightmare, dodging the crashing cars, the people driven mad by the toxin, Emily wondered as she gazed at the stallion, at its flaming red eyes, at the hellish sparks shooting from its black hooves, why she had not been taken to the afterlife yet?

From the corner of her eye she gazed at Death and saw the rough burlap mask that shrouded him – a pall she always thought over the rotting flesh. Maggots swarmed over it and instantly nausea overwhelmed her and she thought she would be sick – further proof she was still alive? But she turned her eyes further down, to the "coat" of Death, the strangest coat she had ever seen, a heavy and pale white fabric – almost used for binding. In one corner of the tear she saw something: ARK.

_ARK – It couldn't be Arkham Asylum. No!_

But Emily wasn't a fool. She had heard in those dreadful moments as the police flooded the Narrows Island the asylum had been emptied and some of the worst criminals were loose. This "coat" might very well be a straightjacket torn by such a patient during his escape.

"Let me go, you! _Let me go_," Emily shrieked.

She began to squirm in his grip, struggling to free herself as the horse continued in full gallop. She didn't know what she might do if she slipped; she just as easily could be trampled to death by Gunpowder.

"Oh, no, my dear! You are not going anywhere," whispered the lunatic. "I have you now and you are mine. All mine! _Mine forever!_"

With this the lunatic gripped her tighter around the waist and dug his heels into Gunpowder's sides. Faster they rode and Gunpowder snorted, his black hooves flashing and thundering, barreling full-speed at the screaming people and leapt over an overturned and smoking car.

For a moment Emily trembled, fearing the jump Gunpowder made and the rushing speed, but then she regained herself and dug her nails into his gripping hand.

"I am _no one's_," cried Emily. "You let me go _now!_"

The lunatic screamed, but then he tore his hand away from her nails and painfully dug his hand into her stomach like a claw.

"Maybe you need to be broken – like a horse then," hissed the lunatic. "I shall break you!"

But Emily twisted, though it was painful in his grip and tried to rip his mask off.

"_NO!"_

As if Emily had just touched him with a scalding iron, he tried to yank her hands away from the mask and shoved it securely back on his face. Gunpowder felt the frantic struggle on his back and suddenly stopped and turned his head around, nervously pawing the ground.

"So you don't like your mask being touched? Well, if you don't let me go –."

Emily frantically grabbed hard at the mask, nearly tearing it. This made the lunatic angrier than she imagined. He grabbed her wrists, painfully squeezing them and stared at her with those wild, mad eyes through the ragged holes in the mask. From the distance a lightening flash momentarily lit up the night followed by an echo of thunder. She briefly saw the eyes clearly and even in the lunatic's madness and anger she saw something disconcertingly familiar in those pale blue eyes.

"Please let me go," Emily whispered. "I have to find Dr. Jonathan Crane. You might know him from the asylum. He might have been your doctor."

A cruel, harsh laugh erupted from the lunatic.

"Oh, no! You will not find him anymore! Dr. Crane is dead now. You will have to love me instead," gloated the lunatic.

Emily fought back her vengeful tears as she gazed at the masked lunatic.

"You killed him?"

"Oh, no," cried the lunatic. "He has been dead long ago. I just finally put him out his misery. And from his death rebirth! From his death I shall live!"

"You **are** mad," Emily screamed.

He loomed close to her in the mask, but she struggled and desperately fought against him, digging her nails into his throat. Again another flash of lightening came, lighting up that grotesque mask, the maggots still squirming over that rough burlap. Then she heard a metallic shrieking, twisting steel and metal rods collapsing from a great height. Both Emily and the lunatic turned their eyes upward and saw the disconnected monorail structure spiraling in the air like some beautiful, yet bizarre sky dance before it inevitably fell earthbound – towards them.

* * *

**Blodeuedd: **About censoring the swearing. I've never given much thought about it. I also post this story on a forum with mixed age groups and that's one of the reasons I censor it. The one reason I do it here is out of consideration for the rating I've placed on this story. Enough swearing and I have to up the rating on the story, foul language and all that. As for your brilliant story, you don't have anywhere as much swearing as mine so you don't have to worry about that I believe. : )

**Coneflower Adams: **Thank you for posting a review and I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. Yes, the battle lines have been drawn and the fight definitely is being waged between Jonathan and Scarecrow … but as you see here, Emily is beginning to fight back too.

**The Dancing Egg: **Okay, you don't have to bug me on AIM … here's the new chapter! LAH!

**Firefly4000: **Thanks for the review. Yes, reviews do keep us writers going. Please keep posting. : )

**Not Human: **Yes, my story is finally dovetailing the story of _Batman Begins_, so we officially are in the movie now – which can pose some problems with continuity and plausibility, but I think I made this chapter work – I hope.


	8. Beyond the Mask

The moments after seemed to unfold in surreal clarity before Scarecrow as the monorail structure broke loose after some mysterious explosion blew it apart from the main railway. As the train barreled to its fiery destruction, Scarecrow and Gunpowder froze as the huge mass of steel toppled towards them. Emily gaped, unable to scream, every muscle tense, but paralyzed in fear. Normally Scarecrow would rejoice at such a reaction from Emily, but he was unable to savor it. Suddenly anger flooded Scarecrow. Everything had gone wrong this night in what would seem his glorious night, the first night of his Reign of Terror. Almost viciously he jabbed his heels into Gunpowder's sides and the stallion suddenly was awakened from his moment of fixed terror.

Frantically he bolted, running almost blindly while Scarecrow guided him not for the open street, but into a narrow alley way. They could not outrun the towering structure that was at least a mile high, but they might be able to reach safety. The steel began to bend and groan as it tumbled closer to the earth. Gunpowder's hooves hammered into the asphalt as the shadow of the tower loomed over them, loomed just over their heads. Just seconds before the entire structure was about to crush them, they reached the alley and they were sheltered by the concrete wall. Thousands of pounds of steel slammed and twisted into the bricks, crushing and shattering the outside of the wall.

Gunpowder briefly reared in fright, pawing the air. A small chunk of concrete, loosened by the collision, flew toward them and glanced off Emily's brow. For a moment she cried in pain, then went limp. Scarecrow looked to her and saw that she was unconscious and blood trickled from the small gash.

"Yes, nothing is working out the way I had planned," grumbled Scarecrow. "No matter. I will take her where I had planned – back to my place. Tonight she shall be mine, mine forever."

Scarecrow tightened his grip on the unconscious Emily, her long, brunette hair hanging limply over her face.

_You are so sure of that._

It was Jonathan's voice. Scarecrow had been so sure he had been silenced forever when he had imprisoned Jonathan in his psyche.

_Ah, Jonathan. So you have come to see what I will do with your girlfriend. Now you will see she is mine. You will see I will have greater success with her than you ever will have!_

_I think not, Scarecrow. You always were mistaken on several things, finesse was one thing, subtlety was another and love you never understood._

_And you now do, Jonathan? Don't make me laugh! All these years as a lonely bachelor and you see Emily and now you're an expert on love! Dr. Jonathan Crane – the Love Doctor Is In!_

_I might not be that_, thought Jonathan. _But I know much more than you ever will. And I also know one other thing._

_And what else might that be_, Scarecrow thought.

Jonathan went silent, but suddenly Scarecrow felt a piercing sharp syringe needle jabbing into his arm and a cool serum filling his vein. Scarecrow watched in horror and realized it was his own left arm giving himself an injection.

_Dammit Jonathan! What are you doing to me!_

_Just doing what needs to be done to get back in control, ScareCrow._

The serum was an antidote to the concentrated Fear Toxin Crane had been dosed with by Batman several hours before, but it also contained a potent cocktail of medications used to combat schizophrenia. Crane had worried about being dosed accidentally with the toxin – it was a common enough risk – and with the growing animosity of Scarecrow, he believed he had to be ready.

But the sequence of events had proved to be more detrimental than Crane had imagined, notably Sgt. Gordan keeping him in that straightjacket while the toxin did its full damage on his psyche. He was unable to reach the antidote while all that time it was in his pocket. And by the time he was free, Scarecrow had assumed full control of his mind and he was unable to dose himself until he was distracted enough – distracted with the collapsing monorail and Emily.

Now would be the tough part, usurping Scarecrow from control and pushing him back into his subconscious. Jonathan clawed his way from the deep, dark imprison in the depths of his mind, moving closer up to consciousness, up to Scarecrow.

_You think you have won! But you are wrong! You are a fool, Jonathan, as you always have been! You are weak!_

The toxin antidote began to work, the hallucinations began to lessen, some of the madness subsiding. The tenuous grip of Scarecrow became shakier. Jonathan was growing closer to Scarecrow in his mind.

_Jonathan you idiot! How can you give this up! Emily is ours! Yours and mine! _

Anger flared within Jonathan.

_Damn you, Scarecrow! Emily is not ours for the taking! She is not some prize we have won. If she chooses to love me, that is her choice._

_Again, weakness, _hissed Scarecrow.

Jonathan had reached Scarecrow in his mind.

_Your weakness is your blind obsession with power_, _ScareCrow!_

Jonathan grasped Scarecrow in the seat of his consciousness. He could feel Scarecrow's shoulder, rustling from the dry stale straw, nearly biting the palm of his hand. Scarecrow turned his face toward him and he saw the mask staring back it him, a face with no eyes, empty and hollow inside, waiting to be filled, waiting to be filled by him.

_You're making a mistake,_ whispered Scarecrow.

_No, my mistake was you, _Jonathan said.

Then Jonathan grabbed the man of straw, madness and empty fear and threw him deep into the shadows of this mind, to bury him, with hopes Scarecrow would never emerge ever again.

* * *

Sunlight began to creep into the slate colored sky as Jonathan rode down the lonely street. Gunpowder's hooves echoed in the silence and the haze of the toxin had long been left behind along with the terror. The fear and the nightmare of the night seemed to vanish like the bad dream it once was and Jonathan also realized that perhaps life as he once knew it was coming to an end as well. 

_No, don't think about that. Just think of what needs to be done now. Get Emily safely home._

She still was unconscious and his right arm was growing tired from holding her as he rode down the street, feeling strangely like he still must be suffering from the toxin's effects or some hallucination. This was all too bizarre, even for Dr. Jonathan Crane. As much as he hated it, he still wore the loathed mask, partly out of practicality – in case Emily awoke and saw him still riding the horse, so she wouldn't know indeed he was Scarecrow –partly because the dried blood from the taser gun wound had congealed to the burlap and tearing the fabric from it now would cause it to bleed afresh. No, he'd have to continue to ride under the guise of Scarecrow for now as much as he hated it and prayed no terrified resident would see some lunatic riding a huge black horse with a captive girl down their street.

But Gotham City still was reeling from its Night of Terror and either was too busy from undoing the chaos or – for the parts of the city mercifully spared the toxin – it blissfully slept. Jonathan turned the corner and saw the faintly dimmed street lights through the ragged eye holes of the mask and faintly could hear the first songs of morning birds.

_You're almost home, Emily._

Finally Gunpowder's weary hooves clopped to a halt in front of the apartment and Jonathan dismounted, then carefully slid Emily out of the saddle and into his arms. She still hung limp and unconsciousness, but Jonathan saw at least her head wound had stopped bleeding – always a good sign. He began to turn toward the apartment, carrying her, when Gunpowder shook his mane and whinnied.

Jonathan gazed coldly at the horse.

"Damn it, what do you want? You're free, go home! Go!"

Gunpowder stomped his right hoof on the pavement, took a step or two and then stopped again.

"Damn it! I am not your owner. Who owns you? The Gotham City P.D.? And now I'll be charged with theft of horse of all absurd things. Leave before they find you in my possession!"

But Gunpowder reared dramatically, thrashing his forelegs in the air.

_Of all the idiotic things you had to steal, why a horse, Scarecrow? Why not a car? It's far more practical_, Crane thought bitterly.

Gently he laid Emily on the lawn in front of the apartment while he approached Gunpowder, who suddenly became docile as he took the rein.

_You are a magnificent animal, I'll grant you that. Far more beautiful than any silly colt I had to ride in those polo matches. But such is life when you're a young doctor scraping and performing like a court fool for funds at Arkham._

"Come, Gunpowder."

Crane didn't know what he'd do with the horse except he certainly didn't have the option of leaving him by a hitching post in the street. He took him several paces behind the apartments where there was a small wooded area and a pond. Gently he removed the bit from Gunpowder's mouth and secured the reins to a tree bough at the water's edge. Crane lightly patted the stallion's neck.

"You saved my life several times this night when I couldn't do anything for myself. Thank you, Gunpowder," Crane said. "Now get some rest."

Gunpowder gazed at him with his black eyes and briefly licked him with his pink tongue, like an oversized dog, then walked to the pond's edge for a drink. Several ducks saw the unusual intruder along the bank and loudly squawked at the stallion, flapping their wings. Gunpowder, unperturbed by the avian ruckus, just continued to drink and then snatched up a mouthful of grass. As far as he was concerned, he was the new king of the pond now.

* * *

The whole scene struck Dr. Jonathan Crane as surreal and vaguely absurd. He was standing in the open doorway fumbling with the jingling keys in his right hand while trying to balance the unconscious Emily in his arms. What made matters worse was his limited vision from the Scarecrow mask as he picked one key after another and jammed it into the lock. 

_C'mon! Let this be the one and let me not drop these damn keys!_

At last when he turned the silver key and the lock clicked open, partly in frustration and gratitude, he kicked the door open. Dr. Jonathan Crane had some vague daydreams of this moment when he kissed Emily. He imagined a romantic dinner, wine, candlelight, a slow evening of seduction – but not Emily knocked unconscious by a stray piece of concrete and him carrying her in wearing the Scarecrow mask.

_Ah, what a fine couple we make! _

The lights were off in her apartment and he began walking tentatively in, wondering where the light switch was amid the shadows of furniture. He heard a crunch underfoot and for a moment feared he had damaged something valuable, then gazed down and saw it was just a newspaper. As his eyes adjusted to the low light he saw that Emily's apartment was somewhat in disarray compared to Jonathan's usually immaculate arrangement – pillows were scattered on the sofa, her morning cup of coffee was left empty on the coffee table and an open magazine was on the chair. A kicked off tan high heeled shoe was just a few feet away from Jonathan in the corridor and posed a possible trip hazard.

_Emily Andrews, I hate to say this, but you're a bit of a slob._

Her bedroom wasn't much better. He gently laid her down on the unmade bed and noted the book sitting open, spine upward, _Darkness and Light: Journey Into the Mind,_ and the glass of water on the nightstand. Next to the water was some over-the-counter medication Doze-Now.

_So you're having problems going to sleep? I would think someone in your profession would be exhausted by midday._

Jonathan looked at her a moment. She looked so peaceful; her hair flowing over the pillow, her left hand resting on her stomach as it gently rose and fell with each breath. He lightly sighed and did what he had been longing to do since he had regained control of his body – he went into the washroom.

He flicked on the lights and noticed Emily's washroom was much smaller than Jonathan's and like the rest of the apartment, less tidy. But it also was filled with all sorts of feminine touches, silk white roses on the sink, pink wallpaper and a rubber ducky sitting innocently on the cream porcelain bathtub.

_A rubber ducky? Well wonders never cease with you, Emily._

Then he gazed at the mirror and at the masked figure staring back at him – at Scarecrow. Once he saw that image as an image of power and fear, now he had learned to despise it and wished to bury it forever. Tentatively he reached for the corners of the mask and gingerly lifted it upward, peeling it slowly off his damp skin. When he reached the taser wound, he paused a moment. He opened the mirror and removed the antiseptic, gauze and medical tape.

_Okay, Jonathan. This is going to hurt. You're just going to have to deal with it. You're no stranger to pain, after all. Hopefully it will not bleed too deeply._

Jonathan winced as he tore the mask off his face.

Daylight crept through the curtains of Emily's bedroom when Jonathan returned. The bandage was secure on his cheek, though it still throbbed in pain. He sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed at Emily as she slept in peace.

_Now I'm afraid Emily, it's your turn._

As gently as he could he took the bottle of antiseptic and cotton, and gently began to clean her forehead wound. Emily grimaced in her unconsciousness, moaning slightly pain.

_Yes, I know it hurts, but I can't risk it getting infected, and it will, especially if any of the concrete debris remains in the wound._

Almost mercifully she remained unconscious as he worked on the wound, cleaning it and at last applying the bandage. Then, there was one more task he had to complete and he hoped he had the means in which to accomplish it. He opened his suit jacket and as he did so a gleam of metal flashed before him; he was wearing the Fear Toxin belt and a cold shiver ran through him. Jonathan closed his eyes a moment, then dug through his breast pocket and removed several plastic vials of solution; he was looking for the original Fear Toxin antidote that didn't include the schizophrenia medication.

_Solution 651B, no. And another B and another. Ah, Solution 651A. I just hope it works on you, Emily._

He drew the solution into a clean hypodermic needle, sterilized her arm and gave her the injection. With the pain of the needle, Emily's eyes fluttered open and she gave a faint cry.

"I'm sorry, Emily."

She turned her eyes to Jonathan and saw him sitting on the bed, the sunlight cutting across him on a diagonal from the slightly parted curtains. Her lips parted and she smiled.

"Hello, Jonathan," she whispered. "I didn't expect to see you again."

Jonathan's clear blue eyes widened as he gazed at her, his face an unreadable mask, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I dead, Jonathan?"

Jonathan gaped slightly, then turned his eyes down and removed the needle, quickly sterilizing her arm and putting on a bandage.

"No, Emily, you aren't dead. Why would you think that?"

"Someone, a madman, told me you were killed – murdered – and I thought I'd never see you again – at least not in this life." A faraway gaze passed over Emily's eyes. "I wonder if I'm dreaming and I'll wake up and find you're gone."

Jonathan tenderly stroked Emily's hair, feeling the warmth and softness of it drifting through his fingers. As she felt the solidity of his fingers her deep warm brown eyes lit up and she smiled.

"Oh, Jonathan, you're not a ghost!"

Before he could answer she reached up toward him and he felt those soft, delicate hands upon his temples and those warm, delicious lips upon his own. He lost himself in her embrace, in her kiss as his heart thundered and his breath quickened with hers.


	9. Emptiness

Emily awoke after a few hours sleep, almost hesitant to open her eyes, afraid that the vision she saw of Jonathan would be gone and the beautiful hours she remembered, the hours they spent of love together, were nothing more than dreaming fantasy. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw the room darkened, whether it was now night or the curtains still were drawn she did not know. She turned her gaze beside her, her heart hoping beyond hope that Jonathan still would be there, lying beside her, but the bed was empty, the place cold beside her.

_Oh, God no! Not again!_

Emily's heart raced in sorrow and panic as she sprang up in the bed, her eyes searching for him and then she saw him, sitting on the edge of the bed, nearly fully dressed; his shirt still was unbuttoned, revealing his bare chest beneath. His back was towards her and he seemed lost in thought somehow, staring at nothingness, at just a wall.

"Jon?"

He turned towards her, his eyes soft and gentle, a gaze she remembered when they were making love. Slowly he moved away from the edge of the bed toward her and she wound her arms around him, almost hesitant now. Emily suddenly felt awkward and unsure of herself, almost trembling at his touch, realizing what a silly reaction this was, especially after their intimacy.

"I'm so glad you didn't leave. I was afraid for a moment you had."

Emily noticed when she said "afraid" a brief spark lit in his eyes, but it quickly died and instead was replaced by sadness and weariness.

"But tell me what you were thinking," Emily continued. "Why are you so sad, Jon? Not about us?"

"No, Emily. I could never be sad about us. I haven't been happy most of my life, but today I wish could I stretch for a lifetime. No, I was thinking about the future."

"Our future, Jon? You think we have no future?" Emily felt her heart sinking into crushed embers.

"You misinterpret me. Ah, if only Gotham City were like the legendary Phoenix this night, to burn bright and from the ashes arise reborn anew!"

"Jon, that makes no sense and you know back from high school I never had any patience with riddles. You always were the one who was good at puzzles."

Emily slipped from the sheets and wrapped her silk robe about her.

"You never did tell me what happened last night," she said. "The night of the madman."

Jonathan had an odd faint smile upon his lips, a faraway gaze in his eyes, but quickly these vanished as he was snapped back to reality once more.

"Excuse me? The 'Night of the Madman?'"

"The madman, the madman who kidnapped me from Arkham. I mean, one moment I'm abducted on that damn horse of his and I'm knocked out with a chunk of rock, next thing I know I'm waking up in my own apartment and there you are. Coincidence, I think not!"

Jonathan's brow furrowed, a slight perspiration gleamed upon it.

"I mean, the madman must have been your patient, right? And that wound on your cheek." She pointed to the bandage. "How'd you get that anyway?"

"Um, I was attacked the night of the Arkham Asylum breakout."

"You mean when that Bat guy came or by that madman or another patient?"

Jonathan heavily sighed and turned his eyes down toward the bedspread as if suddenly frustrated with the whole line of inquiry.

"Jon, that madman said he _killed you!_ I just want to know what happened to you – and to me."

Jonathan turned his clear blue eyes up and gazed directly into her eyes.

"That madman did attack me, but it was before Arkham was emptied, before that strange vigilante. I was not killed as you now see. I left before any of the chaos happened in the Narrows." He took a deep breath before continuing. "As for you, I was on my way home. Most of the street was in ruins and traffic was delayed. I saw the madman on the streets and suddenly recognized you. While the madman was distracted, I used the sleeping gas on him, and brought you back to your apartment."

Emily nodded and gazed at his open shirt, at his beautiful chest that gently rose and fell with each breath. She remembered the kisses and caresses a few hours ago from this man whom, when she first met, didn't think could be so gentle, so loving. Her eyes moved up toward that graceful throat, toward several crisscrossing scratch marks that stood out red and swollen against his fair, perfect skin. She reached out toward him, her fingers outstretched, the scratches almost matching with her fingernails.

_From the distance a lightening flash momentarily lit up the night as the blast disconnected the monorail. Emily briefly saw the eyes clearly through the ragged holes of the burlap mask and even in the lunatic's insanity and anger she saw something disconcertingly familiar in those pale blue eyes._

"_Dr. Crane is dead now," gloated the lunatic. "You will have to love me instead," _

_He loomed close to her in the mask, but she struggled and desperately fought against him, tearing at his throat with her fingernails._

Emily blinked as she gazed at the scratches, then at Jonathan's pale blue eyes.

_No, it can't be. That truly would be crazy._

But Emily realized he must have sensed something, because he noticed she was staring at the scratches and quickly buttoned up his shirt, and slipped on his suit jacket. She also noticed his whole demeanor changed, he had become formal again, now Dr. Jonathan Crane, the professional persona he presented to the outside world.

_Emily, you idiot! The one moment where he trusted you and loved you, and then you had to act like the Spanish Inquisition! You really blew it!_

She almost watched in panic as she saw Jonathan leave the room.

_No, he's not leaving you, Emily. He's not like Kevin, Jeff, Steve or Michael. No, not out to abandon you for the next pretty thing to come along. No, not out to use you and then throw you away. Jon, he's not like the others. He always had a kind heart and this morning he was so loving._

_(But weren't the others initially?)_

Emily was taken aback as she sat alone on the empty, crumpled bed she shared with Jonathan earlier. Quickly she slipped out of bed and put on her soft white slippers.

"Jon, do you want to go get dinner or a movie or something tonight?"

"Hmm?"

She could hear him moving around in another room as if occupying himself with something. Just what was he doing?

"The morning paper should be just outside the doorway. Could you get it? It should have movie times and everything. We could do something. Have a little fun, eh?"

"I'd like that, Emily."

There was a warmth and softness to his voice, which suddenly soothed Emily a great deal. Her heart rate slowed and she went back into her bedroom, beginning to change.

"I don't know about you, Jon, but these last few hours, I've realized something, I've realized how deeply I feel about you."

Emily had the door closed while she changed and she half knew he couldn't hear her. In her cowardice she almost was afraid of admitting these words to Jon, afraid of admitting it to herself. She slipped on her blue skirt and flesh tone silk stockings.

"But Jon, I – I think even back in high school – even as far back as that – yes I know I was a foolish girl then – foolish for not recognizing it then –."

She slipped on her cream cable knit sweater blouse, then brushed her long brunette hair to get out the tangles and static.

"But I think even then I knew, Jon, I knew that I – that I. Oh, Jon, I can't say this to a closed door! I know you probably won't hear."

Emily opened the door and walked out into the hallway, searching for him. The kitchen was lit and this morning's paper was waiting for her facedown on the table. A big advertising splash was on the back, announcing sales at a variety of stores and Emily, in annoyance, flipped the paper over.

**TERROR HITS GOTHAM!** Read the headline and Emily thought she knew the story from the vague memories from the night before, but as she skimmed down she saw something she didn't expect – a picture of Jonathan – _her Jonathan._

"_Dr. Jonathan Crane, head of psychiatry at Arkham Asylum, also masterminded operations, ordering large quantities of toxin – which would incite mass fear hysteria when inhaled as a vapor – into the city's water supply. The case currently is under investigation, but Dr. Crane, who escaped from Gotham City Police last night, is at large and potentially dangerous._

Emily's vision swam with tears and her throat choked as the paper trembled in her hands.

_Oh, God, Jon, no! No, this can't be true! No! No! NO!_

"Jon!"

She cried as she jumped from the kitchen table, slamming the paper face down. Emily saw Jonathan nowhere and as she raced through the apartment, screaming his name, part in anger, part in sorrow, she ran past the doorway and saw it partially open.

_Oh, no. Please, no!_

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she raced down the stairs, hoping madly that she would see his fleeing form, his trailing shadow before her. But as she rushed out into the empty, lonely street she saw nothing, nothing but the occasional car passing on the street, the trees swaying softly in the wind and the moon, pale and watery in the evening sky. Emily shivered, clutching her cold, naked arms.

_But, Jon. I love you._

* * *

He now rode in the shadows, in the dank, narrow confines of the alley. Gunpowder carefully stepped past the overturned boxes and the heaping piles of garbage. Jonathan Crane felt a pang of guilt taking this magnificent animal away from the beautiful pond into the filthy bowels of Gotham City once more. Gunpowder deserved being where there was beauty and peace, not this, but he couldn't stay with Emily, as much as it hurt him to leave, he couldn't draw her into his guilt. 

_The police will be looking for me Emily and if they find me with you, they will suspect you helped me. No, I can't risk it, not anymore. Even I have limits to my selfishness._

He pondered now as he rode through the dark, claustrophobic alley, winding through the back ways of Gotham City, if the last hours he spent with Emily were selfish.

_Yes, Jonathan, it was selfish. You knew what position you were in, what the future held, yet you succumbed to that boyhood fantasy, what you had been dreaming of since high school. Ah, Jonathan, you fool! Now you have wounded her more deeply than you ever could imagine!_

He felt something hot and wet burning in his eyes and streaming down his cheek. Angrily he wiped away the tear, but still more came and his vision blurred, making the alley look like it was swimming in murky brine. Almost in relief, Jonathan reached for his Scarecrow mask, now torn and stained, and slipped it over his face to conceal his grief. Now the world would just see a gruesome and terrifying visage, and never see the pain and sorrow that dwelt beneath.

At last, after several hours of winding through the back ways, alleys and lonely side streets, Jonathan emerged near the starting point of his long journey with Gunpowder – the bridge leading to Narrows Island. Truly it was madness that compelled him now. He knew he could not return to his apartment, surely the police would be waiting for him there and just a common enough trap could be set at Arkham Asylum, yet he was compelled to return to it somehow. In many ways that asylum was more home to him than his apartment, swallowing much of his waking hours – no, more his soul – within the white brick confines and black steel gates.

He lightly kicked Gunpowder's sides, urging him forward from the shadows of a side street into the broad, brightly lit intersection leading to Narrows Island Bridge. Gunpowder's hooves clopped loudly it seemed; the hour was late and blessedly no cars were on the road on that empty street. Jonathan kept Gunpowder at an easy pace, gradually approaching the gatekeeper's window at the entrance of the bridge.

A man slouched at the chair listening to the radio, his pot belly nearly popping the buttons on his now too tight uniform. He nursed the coffee in his right hand, clearly not noticing Jonathan as he approached.

"Heh, kinda a late night for mounted police, eh," mumbled the gatekeeper, without looking. "What is it? Almost 2 a.m.?"

The gatekeeper sat up with a grunt and gazed idly out the window, and saw Jonathan who still wore the Scarecrow mask. Suddenly the gatekeeper's eyes widened and the coffee mug slipped from his fingers, shattering upon the steel plated floor.

"What the hell? Stop you freak!"

But before he could reach for a gun or call for assistance, Jonathan stretched out his arm and shot a clear sleeping gas into the gatekeeper's face.

"I'm in no mood for fear this night, sleep instead," Jonathan said as he watched the gatekeeper heavily slump back asleep in his chair.

Jonathan rode across the length of the bridge unhindered and at last found himself in a territory he knew so well from childhood – the Narrows.

* * *

The Narrows Island still had not recovered from its Night of Terror. The streets were scarred with broken concrete from a crashed vehicle and an occasional twisted or crushed car. Jonathan didn't know whether it was the late hour or the shock the island still was reeling from, but the streets were eerily silent and still as he rode like some remnant of last evening's nightmare. 

The quietness was deafening to the point he almost fancied he had lost his hearing within the muffling mask. Jonathan sighed, the tears now were gone and he hardly feared prying eyes seeing him on so deserted a street. Slowly he slipped the rough burlap off and smoothed out his hair.

Gunpowder tossed his head briefly as they turned the corner and began their long walk down Sweeney Street – named after one of the great benefactors of Arkham Asylum. Gunpowder pricked his ears and grew more ill at ease as they approached the large, looming white structure ahead, as if approaching some massive haunted house. Jonathan slipped on his glasses from his breast pocket and now that they were closer, he realized that something was not quite right as could be imagined.

The always locked steel gates hung slightly open on its hinges and the guard house, which always was lit, stood black and cold. Jonathan gently kicked Gunpowder's sides, urging the reluctant stallion forward. The horse snorted and quickened his pace, and as the gates quickly approached, Jonathan also saw not only the guard house was empty, but the lights within Arkham also were dim – on emergency power.

_There must be somebody there. There always has been!_

He flicked the reins and kicked Gunpowder's sides once more, urging him into a run. The black gates swiftly passed them and the menacing structure of Arkham rose ominously to greet them, more a massive gray shadow with faint lights glimmering from the barred windows. When he reached the main entrance, out of habit he reached for his ID card to unlock the door, but then saw there was no need – the door hung open upon its hinges.

Jonathan heavily sighed and slipped from the saddle. Again he had to content himself with haphazardly tying Gunpowder's reins to a nearby tree bough, then walked through Arkham Asylum's door, for the first time not knowing what to expect inside. Papers littered the corridor like autumnal leaves and Jonathan's sudden emergence caused them to slightly shiver upon the floor. Briefly he gazed upon them and saw they were patients' records, undoubtedly scattered from medical files in the panic.

A little further down he saw signs of a blast, deep scars in the cracked tile, soot burns and shattered wood at the nurse's station, but thankfully no sign of bodies. Even further still was another sign of a heavier detonation, this time at the door leading to the Criminally Insane Ward. The thick metal doors were warped and broken open from a massive blast and from the opening he could see each one of the patients' doors sprung open. Yes, all of his beloved guinea pigs were now loose on Gotham.

He gazed at the patients' records beneath his feet, stained, torn and burned – years of his research either destroyed or damaged beyond repair. He honestly didn't know if he could ever recover it again and now that his subjects were gone – now that they had returned to their native environment to wreak whatever wickedness and evil they wished upon it. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His fists clenched hard, feeling his nails biting into his palm.

_Betrayed! I trusted you! You gave me your word! And you betrayed me!_

Black revenge and bitter hatred swam in his heart. For a moment Scarecrow awoke within his mind and began to whisper delicious tortures in his ear. But as he briefly savored these thoughts, suddenly a panic, so sharp and piercing entered Jonathan's heart and drove all thoughts of revenge from his mind.

_Oh, God! How could I have been so blind and stupid!_

Jonathan ran harder than he could remember through the asylum into the West Wing. His heart beat frantically as each door, one after another, appeared open and empty, but there was only one he hoped and prayed still had a patient that remained. As Jonathan saw Room 221, he fumbled with his ID, hoping it still was securely locked as he grabbed hold of the door handle, but just as easily as all the other doors it came open. The chair was in the place it always was and the room didn't seem in disarray like much of the asylum.

"Mom! It's me, Jonathan! Are you okay?"

He rushed into the room, his heart madly racing, not caring for decorum or his appearance, just hoping beyond hope she still was there, that she was okay. Jonathan's eyes widened as he stood before the chair and then slowly sank to his knees, just staring in dumb shock.

"Oh, no. Oh, please no."

He reached out and placed his hand on the armrest, where his mother's hand always was – where his mother's hand now was gone. The chair was vacant now, just like the rest of Arkham Asylum.

That night there was only one sound in Arkham Asylum and it was the sound Jonathan Crane sobbing.


	10. Dark Knight

Jackknife Square was abuzz with activity late into the evening on the south end of Narrows Island just a few miles from the coast. Up until recently the square had been dominated by Falcone's lesser thugs, who had used it as a central haven to peddle drugs to the poor and the forgotten of the Narrows. But recently, since last night's terror, these minor thieves and criminals had been driven out by Falcone's alpha criminals – hit men, rapists and serial killers.

These escapees from Arkham Asylum, still clad in their neon orange jumpsuits, found mere sniveling amateurs in the square. Many of the criminals from Arkham didn't mince words or waste time with asking Falcone's underlings to leave – they just killed them and in the most brutal way imaginable, just to get warmed up and to enjoy the thrill of murdering once again.

Now this night they were huddled by the lit metal garbage cans, warming their hands, bragging about how many they killed the night before and how much they stole during the day. The more adept convicts no longer wore the Arkham jumpsuits, but also wore new clothing – undoubtedly from some poor victim.

"I killed three yesterday! It was so sweet," mumbled a convict in his mid-forties, wearing ill-fitting suit pants and a long coat. "They were screaming the whole time, begging for mercy."

"You call that killing? You f-cking wuss," spat another convict in his late 20s, dressed in padded blue jacket and paint stained jeans. "I killed _six!_ Four were in the square, but then I thirsted for more – killed two just for fun."

"Is this a bragging contest? Don't make me laugh! I killed _10!_"

The two convicts gazed at the intruder who came to the fire and recognized the dark gaze, the leathered skin and several old scars cutting across his arm and one in the cheek. It was Jimmy Fessanti.

"We know you have quite a reputation," grumbled the older convict, rubbing his cold-numbed hands. "But I think that's a lie."

"A lie, eh?" Swiftly Fessanti slipped out a nasty looking knife, its steel and jagged edges gleamed harsh and cold in the firelight. "Maybe I should slit your throat and silence your own foul lies!"

"Hey, I'm not saying you didn't kill all those men, Jimmy," said the older man. "Just warm up a bit, eh? No need to kill – not among friends."

"True, no need to kill, not us friends. Although you never helped me – not when I was in Arkham, George."

"How could I, how could any of us," cried the older convict George. "We were all lab rats to that madman Crane!"

"True, but if that's the case, perhaps you'd give me a token of your friendship now, maybe – your coat. Yes, I'll take that nice coat of yours."

"Jimmy, it's freezing out. I'm an old man; the bitter chill gets to me more than you young men."

A murderous rage flashed into Fessanti's eyes as he pointed the gleaming steel blade near George's throat.

"Your coat then or your life – your choice then – friend."

The old convict for a moment gazed at Fessanti, as if wondering briefly if he could take him down, then he sighed, realizing defeat, and slowly slipped the coat from his shoulders and gave it to Fessanti. Beneath the coat was little more than a thin cotton long-sleeved shirt. Fessanti almost grinned, the old man was sure to freeze tonight without that coat.

"Ah, thank you, my friend," Fessanti said, accepting the coat. "Your gift is much appreciated."

Fessanti then turned his eyes to the younger convict, who slowly was slinking away during the entire conversation with George, but he was not so far away from the fire and into the shadows that he could not see him yet.

"Tim Steppenport, leaving so soon? You are my friend, aren't you? And what token will you give me to prove your long lasting friendship?"

"Aw, Jimmy, you know I'm your friend – all those years with Falcone – all our good times together. Hell, remember that time –"

"Ah, you know I'm such a material man, Tim. I like proof, things in my hands, on my back!"

Fessanti maliciously tugged at his new coat while George groaned and already began to rub his arms and shiver, almost standing in the fire for warmth.

"Now the question is what gift would you give me? I already have a coat and I don't like your jeans at all – although seeing you running throughout the square in nothing but your underwear would be a sight, eh, George?"

"If-if y-y-ou s-s-ay so, Jim," George shivered.

"Ah, I know! Those aren't Arkham issue, are they?" Jimmy pointed his gleaming blade down at the asphalt. "Take them off now and give them to me."

"What Jimmy? I don't understand –"

"Your shoes! You must have stolen them from some store today and I want them!"

"I don't think our shoe size –"

"I'll give it a try, won't I?"

With venom in his gaze, Tim yanked off the new black shoes and handed them to Fessanti. They were beautifully contoured and an excellent sports shoe. When Fessanti laced them up and walked around in them not only did they fit, they felt wonderful. Fessanti took a glance at the brand stitched into the midnight black fabric:

**Crane**

_Such a bad name for such an excellent shoe. I'll forgive them though_, Fessanti thought.

"You have great taste in shoes, Tim, just like George here has excellent taste in coats." Fessanti relished seeing Tim standing in his socks on the asphalt, his toes curling from the cold. "You really have offered me wonderful homecoming gifts indeed. You have proven your friendship and spared your lives this night – a wise choice."

Fessanti slipped the gleaming blade back as easily as he withdrew it, even though he still saw the venom in both his colleagues' eyes. From a distance he heard a stirring in the camp and a faint clamoring of "Rain! Rain!"

_That's odd. Not a cloud in the sky and a night this cold it should snow._

Fessanti turned his eyes as some of the former inmates of Arkham began to swarm around something. Pools of reddish orange light only illuminated a limited amount of space from the flaring trash cans and after that everything else could only faintly be seen by pale moonlight. Fessanti strained to see who or what was causing the commotion.

Even Victor Zsaz, coming back from his latest killing spree from Gotham City with tales of blood and chaos, wouldn't be greeted with such panic unless he truly had gone mad and began killing the other convicts here. Fessanti's blood suddenly ran cold at the thought, despite his new gifts. Fessanti was an experienced murderer, but Zsaz would be tough to kill unless Fessanti had a semiautomatic rifle, which right now he did not.

But suddenly the mass of convicts parted unexpectedly, as if in awe or terror and a bizarre aisle stood between Fessanti and a man sitting upon a black horse. Slowly, surprisingly hesitant for the death count Fessanti could boast of, he approached the man astride the horse and an eerie silence was broken by an occasional murmur or whisper deep within the crowd.

"_It's Crane. He feasts on Fear and Pain."_

"_He would walk the halls of Arkham – all night."_

"_He would drink our Screams, eat our Terror"_

"_Then desire more!"_

"_Always hungering for more."_

"_He is the deep Emptiness. The Void."_

"_He never sleeps – never. He's not a man. He's a ghost."_

"_No. Not a ghost. An avenging demon – bringing Hell to Earth." _

"_And he's here – now. He's here – for us. Maybe to bring us to Hell for good!"_

"Silence," screamed Fessanti.

All growing murmurs stopped and Fessanti grew bolder as he approached the man he knew of flesh and blood, the man of weakness, the man he knew brought a woman with him to Arkham Asylum one morning.

"This is no myth or demon! This is the stupid, weakling doctor who used us maliciously as lab rats in his twisted fear experiments! Have you forgotten it all? Or are you too stupid, brain damaged by his gas or guilt ridden to remember?"

As Fessanti grew closer he could see that the man on the horse wore the gruesome Scarecrow mask and his facial expressions were hidden from him. Fessanti was angry, feeling cheated somehow that the mask played to the myth and hid Crane's vulnerability.

"Ah, so you're a coward as well, Crane! Wearing a mask! Choosing to be 'Scarecrow' tonight? Don't you know Halloween is already past? Don't you know that riding a horse is so cliché? It doesn't make you look dashing, it makes you look like a moron who –"

Crane swiftly kicked Gunpowder's sides and he bolted straight at Fessanti. For a moment he stood, stunned at the charging horse and even more amazed at the roaring cheers that arose from the convicts. When he broke from his astonishment, he almost could feel the steaming breath of the stallion panting upon him and the sharp hooves bearing down upon him. His legs were pumping in his new sports shoes, trying to find a break in the thronging crowd, but as Fessanti was ready to find safety, the convicts closed the opening from him, their arms crossed, their eyes burning with rage.

_Dammit, Jimmy, why did you make so many enemies?_

The stallion's snout roughly nudged him forward, nearly tossing him hard onto the pavement; the horse's pace suddenly slackened as Fessanti desperately tried to keep up the pace.

_Crane what are you doing? Are you leading me somewhere? Well I'm not playing any of your games. I'm not –_

Again his concentration was broken and the horse's snout nudged him as a wayward colt. This time Gunpowder's pace quickened and a hoof grazed one of Fessanti's calf muscles painfully. He screamed and nearly fell, but continued to half run, half limp to the end of the square. Then when they reached it, Crane wheeled the horse around and he gazed at Fessanti, who now was panting and nearly doubled over, rubbing his calf.

"What? No words? Dr. Crane, the psychiatrist who always analyzed and dissected our minds now quiet? Speak damn you!"

Crane tightened the reins a bit and the silence was so deafening Fessanti could hear the leather creak.

"Your cell was the closest to her," Crane said. "I want you to tell me what you saw."

"The closest," Fessanti gasped. "The closest to who?"

"The closest to Mrs. – Crane."

"Crane?" A malicious smile slid over Fessanti's lips. "Ah, what a sweet son you are! You who drove your own mother mad! I bet you tested your own toxin on her, didn't you? She probably was your first lab ra–"

In a lightening flash Crane threw out his arm and a cloud of toxin veiled Fessanti.

"Now tell me, my little lab rat," demanded Crane. "Where is my mother and who took her!"

Fessanti choked for a moment, clutching his throat, he briefly gazed at Crane and his eyes grew wide in terror, then closed his eyes and began murmuring it wasn't real.

"Tell me," Crane hissed.

"No! I won't!"

"If you won't tell I will give you a stronger dose and you will be _permanently insane!_ I will be doing Gotham City a favor, I assure you."

"Oh, no! Please no! I'll talk! I saw someone, just briefly. There were so many people. A man – a man in black. He took her."

"The Bat-man?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see clearly. There were inmates everywhere. But he was dressed in black – carrying her."

Crane lowered his firing arm.

"Thank you, Fessanti. That was all I needed to know.

* * *

Crane gazed upon Fessanti as he lay upon the pavement, thrashing at unknown terrors. 

_A man dressed in black, _thought Crane._ I doubt it is the Bat-man, but if he is trying to get to me, using my mother as bait, what better way to do it? Who else would it be? One of these scum here? Perhaps out of revenge for my experiments? No, none of the inmates were dressed in black, at least not then. Then who else would it be? One of Ra's Al Ghul's men? And why would they kidnap her? To keep her safe in my madness at the time of the breakout or maybe to use as ransom if I return? And who else, an unknown enemy perhaps – Syler or someone else trying to harm me and using her as a lure? Whoever it is, I've limited my options._

Crane gazed at Fessanti and saw two men busy stripping him of his shoes and coat. It hardly surprised Crane thievery was taking place before his eyes, it was on the level of this scum. Suddenly the low flickering firelight was replaced by a bright flare light and Crane whirled around to see bright headlights glaring at him.

"This is the Gotham City Police! Do not move! We have this area completely surrounded," trumpeted a bullhorn.

What the policeman tried to say next Crane couldn't hear because a sudden roar erupted from the convicts and pandemonium broke out everywhere. Inmates ran in every direction, trying to escape from the police, while gunfire erupted and teargas canisters clattered to the ground and hissed. Crane was thankful he still was wearing the mask and was close to the alleyway. He lightly kicked Gunpowder and led him away from Fessanti and out of Jackknife Square.

His hooves echoed loudly through the alley and the voices of the convicts and the harsh police lights faded into the distance. Gunpowder tossed his head a few times and pricked his ears as though spooked by something. Crane gazed down the alley and saw nothing but a few overturned boxes and some stray garbage, not even the occasional bum or drug dealer as could be expected so close to the infamous square.

"It's okay, boy," Jonathan whispered, patting Gunpowder's neck.

But the stallion nearly shrieked, tossing his head back, nose flaring and Crane looked up. He saw something black poised against the wall and in that instant that black thing flared out with huge bat wings and plummeted fast down upon him.

"Run!"

Crane jabbed his heels into Gunpowder's sides and the already frightened horse bolted, missing the massive bat a few seconds before they were enveloped by him. Gunpowder galloped out of the alley and they found themselves in a small triangular court where three buildings meet. From there two other alleys branched off and Jonathan made note of where they came from so they wouldn't become hopelessly turned around. Gunpowder panted nervously as a shadow emerged from the alley and took shape in the form of a human bat. The Batman, always with a taste for drama, paused for a few moments outside the alley and almost gazed at Crane in amusement.

"It appears your horse is afraid of bats," he said in his low, hoarse voice. "I can't say I blame him."

"I couldn't blame him either," said Crane angrily. "You frightened him by nearly falling on us. I don't mind you hurting me, but spare Gunpowder. He has no quarrel with you."

"Fair enough. Will you dismount then and face me on foot? That will make it equal for both of us."

"It never was equal for me, Bat-man. You think it's equal pitting a spectator against a wrestler? Or perhaps you would think it fair if someone with a fire hydrant was up against someone with a grenade? And I assure you those are poor comparisons!"

"Make your point, Crane!"

"I'm just saying I can't fight you in hand-to-hand combat and I don't have any of your high-tech toys, Bat-man."

"But if I recall you did a good enough job of gassing me with your Fear Toxin and setting me on fire."

Crane was silent a moment, then gazed at the man dressed as a bat before him.

"What choice did I have? You broke into my apartment, attacked my men, were stealing my drugs –"

"I was not –"

"And I had to protect what was mine!"

"It is useless to argue with the criminally insane, which you are Crane. You are going down, which I have sworn to do this night!"

Batman dramatically flared back his cape and ran toward Crane, but unexpectedly Gunpower reared, flashing his hooves. Batman stopped a moment before the horse, waiting for the stallion to return to earth, before approaching again. This time Crane took the lead as Batman approached and urged Gunpowder into a charge. The Dark Knight had to quickly lunge out of the way so not to be trampled by the stallion.

"Crane! Quit your games! Stop being a coward!"

"A coward? Who's the coward now, Bat-man? Resorting to petty criminality yourself?"

"What madness are you talking about?"

"Kidnapping, Bat-brain! A woman in her late 40s from Arkham Asylum. Do you know anything about that?"

"I must have given you too much of your own medicine, Crane – or should I call you Scarecrow now? You truly are _mad_."

"If you don't have her then I must find her."

"One of your own patients? I didn't know you had such fondness for your test subjects. But no matter. Tonight I'm taking you into Gotham City P.D. You will look for no one except inside the Gotham City Penitentiary."

"If I don't look for her now she will be lost forever," Crane spat.

He turned his horse to leave, but a sudden explosion erupted behind him, a small bomb thrown by Batman. Gunpowder reared, shrieking and Crane, not expecting it, felt himself sliding off the stallion's back and felt a terrible crushing thud as he fell heavily to the asphalt. Through the haze, Crane felt a mixture of pain, sadness, anger and terror as he saw Gunpowder race off down one of the alleys in fright.

"Now that that absurd jousting match is over with, come along quietly," Batman said.

He approached Crane, his dark cape sweeping in back of him, but as Crane struggled to get up he felt a terrible pain in his left rib. He began to push himself away from Batman on the asphalt, struggling to make it to his feet.

"Crane, don't make this harder. You're injured. Now I'm taking you to the police."

"No," Crane gasped. "I must find her."

Batman reached out to firmly grasp Crane, but he twisted away, indignant at Batman's touch. The two stood in silence a moment, staring at each other in that dark square, neither of them moving.

Swiftly Batman moved on Crane and Crane felt a sharp blow to his jaw, feeling the hot, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. For a moment his vision almost swam into black unconsciousness and he felt himself sinking to the pavement. Never did he feel such a sharp, swift blow, as if Batman's fist was welded out of steel and the blow was a hammer strike.

_Paying me back from setting you on fire, are you, Bat-man_, he vaguely thought.

The concrete hit his back sharply as he fell to the ground and he saw Batman loom over him and the serrated edges of the gauntlets, wondering if he could be cut by them.

_Quit laying there like a victim, a rag doll! Think, Crane!_

His fingers vaguely fumbled on his right arm as his breathing grew labored from the pain and his vision swam in and out of black unconsciousness.

"Fear Toxin won't help you now," Batman muttered. "Not anymore."

He could feel Batman's strong gauntlets gripping him and his body begin to leave the cold, hard pavement.

_If I am taken and imprisoned I will never see her again._

He feebly opened his eyes and even as his vision swam through the pain and he struggled to lift his arm, Batman gripped him tighter, trying to keep him from moving.

"What are you doing, Crane? You can't win."

"I don't have to win. I just have to save this time."

And drawing on what seemed like the last of his strength, he slightly lifted his arm against what seemed like Batman's limitless power and released the invisible sleeping gas from the toxin mechanism concealed in his wrist. Batman turned, anger in his eyes, but then that anger dulled and his eyelids drooped, and Crane felt his grip weaken upon him. Suddenly Batman's legs crumpled beneath him and Crane was dropped a third time to the ground. He mercifully fell on his good rib, but it still hurt nonetheless and he bruised his arm.

For a moment in the pain, his legs not wanting to respond, his left rib aching in terrible pain with each breath, he slowly got to his feet and gazed at Batman who looked so surreal, a massive black heap of cape, steel and body armor. In curiosity Crane almost was tempted to remove the mask, wanting to know who it was, just as Batman had so rudely ripped off his mask back at Arkham as Scarecrow, but no. He had more pressing matters to attend to and he was injured – time might be of the essence now.

Crane gazed at the three alleyways, trying to surmise which path Gunpowder took and wondering if it would be possible to recover him now or if he had escaped from him for good. He now was faced with a terrible choice; go down one of the alleys where unknown danger lurked in pursuit of Gunpowder or turn back to Jackknife Square, which was swarming with police and certain capture.

_I can't be captured now – not yet. She might die if I end up in a prison._

_(She might die if you get killed too.)_

It was Scarecrow – the first time Jonathan heard his voice since he shoved him back into his subconscious, but he knew repressing him didn't mean destruction and that he would return. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he heard from him again, but he would not listen to Scarecrow, not anymore, not since that fateful night when he hijacked his mind and body and kidnapped Emily.

_No. I won't listen to you, not ever again._

Jonathan turned his back on the alley leading back to Jackknife Square and entered the unknown, dark alley he believed Gunpowder ran into.


	11. The Cocoon Breaks

Emily gazed at the noisy children as they were busy shouting at each other, playing with their toys and fighting. Most of the time she watched attentively and was on the look out for a potential brawl, but today she felt numb on the inside and out, and the children seemed nothing more than a passing dream to her disconnected thoughts. The pain had been intense, a dagger point digging sharply into her heart once she realized Jonathan was gone – abandoned yet again by someone she loved and believed in after she gave herself to him.

The betrayal felt even worse somehow than before because this time she had believed it would be different. Jonathan, beyond the cool exterior and the shell he presented to the outside world, seemed to genuinely care about her – dare she believe love? She could believe he loved her in his tender caresses, with his lips upon hers, when his fingers intertwined with her own and her blood sang with passion. Even the thought of it now brought tears to her eyes and she fought to concentrate on her work.

"Emily, are you okay?"

She sat up straight in one of the only adult chairs in the daycare and gazed in the direction of the voice. Emily felt guilty, afraid she had been caught daydreaming, wallowing in her sorrow and heartache. She looked up and saw Sarah Teschner, a woman in her mid-30s with auburn hair and gray eyes, a kindly woman with a wonderful talent with the children and a great help in running the daycare center.

"I'm fine, Sarah, just fine."

"You don't look fine. Here."

Sarah handed Emily a box of tissues and Emily tried not to wince. Was her emotional state so obvious?

"What's bothering you," Sarah whispered. "Is it another boyfriend?"

Angrily Emily snatched the tissues box and stared at the children who still were as busy screaming and roughhousing as they were five minutes ago.

"We should be watching the children," Emily muttered. "Not talking about my social life."

"We will watch the children too," said Sarah, pulling up the only other adult chair and turning it around to face the children. "Now is it a boyfriend? Is it that man you brought in to show the children?"

"I – no – I mean." Emily heavily sighed. "I can't date anymore, Sarah. I'm cursed, it's that simple."

"What nonsense are you talking about?" Sarah sounded a little cross.

"I mean, I thought he loved me, like the others. He was so different. He seemed to care – but it ended before it even begun. He's left me and I don't even know where he is now."

"Oh dear one," Sarah whispered. "I'm so sorry. You've had such bad luck, but you mustn't give up hope."

"Yes, I know."

Emily turned away and thought back to the newspapers and what many were calling Dr. Jonathan Crane now. Where he once was lauded as the best and brightest, Gotham City's genius psychiatrist, now he was called the Monster of Gotham, the one who poisoned the water supply, helped release the toxin and allegedly conducted hideous fear experiments at Arkham.

It all seemed too terrible and twisted for Emily to fathom, and she hardly could believe the sweet-faced boy who accidentally knocked over her books on the way to a psychology class so long ago could now be the "Monster of Gotham," not the man who she had experienced his loving caress. Could a monster bestow love so sweetly and show bitter hatred and fear toward another? Emily truthfully didn't know and wished she could understand.

Jerry, who once spent his days huddling in a corner or being teased, had become bolder since his visit with Dr. Crane and held on to the handkerchief that Crane had given him as if it was a valuable gift. Jonathan had done some good – could a "monster" have achieved that? And today even Emily was taken by surprise when Jerry gave a surprised gasp and pointed to the tank located high up on the shelf, which held the butterfly cocoons.

"Look Miss Andrews! Look!"

Emily turned around and saw the cocoon moving and stretching with the creature that was struggling inside to be free, to experience the outside world. Sarah also turned to gaze at the birth in wonder and the children also abandoned their toys and nearly stampeded to the wall and stood on tiptoe to gain a better view of the tank. Gradually two slender insect legs poked through, tearing open the delicate silk, then a pair of antennae and a head slipped from the cocoon's opening.

The insect then struggled, trying to free itself of the silken prison that had been its home and protection, but now its wings were the most difficult thing for it to free. But at last its wings slipped from the cocoon and the newborn butterfly hung upon that which had imprisoned it to rest and dry its wings so it might soon fly. The delicate wings were an iridescent blue swirled with black and it reminded Emily of Jonathan's blue eyes and his dark hair.

_Must I die to myself old self to be reborn like this butterfly? What prison is holding me now that I must break free of?_

Rain softly pattered against the window and Emily turned to look outside at the gleaming streets and the passing cars. The water mirrored red and green street traffic lights and shimmering white headlights. People raced down the streets, holding papers over their heads, scrambling for cover.

_Where are you now, Jonathan? Are you my cocoon? My cage? Must I break free of you or are you my blue-black wings?_

Emily thought back to the paper that was so quick to accuse, but left more questions in her mind about the night she rode through Gotham with that madman as the city swarmed in panic.

"_Allegedly Dr. Crane was connected with the same criminal group that masterminded release of the toxin into the air. The criminal group – its name still unknown – used the monorail and a stolen device from Wayne Enterprises to vaporize the toxin."_

Emily remembered back to the collapsing monorail that nearly crushed her and the madman and wondered if perhaps that was the monorail that was used to release the deadly toxin.

_Jonathan, if you are connected with the criminal group that released the toxin, what trouble are you in? Criminal activity, pouring poison into the water supply to be released into the air. No, Jonathan, I shouldn't love you anymore. You betrayed me and now you'll be going to jail._

The butterfly, which for the last few minutes had been content to gently opening and closing it wings, suddenly began to flutter in the tank, trying to fly. The children cried out in excitement and joy, jostling each other and pointing. Sarah was trying her best to keep order as Emily remained lost in her thoughts over Jonathan. Emily turned her eyes to the glass tank and saw the iridescent blue-black butterfly trying to fly but now was trapped in the glass tank.

_Now you'll be going to jail._

The butterfly frantically tapped at the glass with its wings, but the confinement was too small and soon it grew weary and ended up resting on the gnarled twig where its shriveled cocoon hung.

_(So quick are you to give up on him. So soon are your hopes dashed.)_

_But it's the truth, Emily Andrews! You've fallen for too many wrong men in your life. And just when you think you've fallen for the 'right' man, he has done something terribly wrong._

_(Maybe he has made a wrong decision, like you. This criminal group – who are they? Maybe he has been deceived by them. Maybe he needs your help, not your judgment.)_

Emily heavily sighed. Outside the wind howled and the rain clattered sharply as it froze and hit against the window glass. The hours ticked by and the window grew dark and cold. Emily waited until the children were gone before she emerged out into the darkness and storm, and drove through the slick Gotham City streets. The windshield wipers flicked back the pellets of ice as she vainly searched the streets for a familiar face – searching for Jonathan Crane.


	12. A Desperate Choice

Jonathan Crane staggered through the narrow alleyway. More and more he was convinced Gunpowder had not taken this route. As Jonathan journeyed further between the adjacent buildings, he began to get a distinct claustrophobic feeling as the walls began to squeeze closer and closer together. Pain jabbed him with each breath and he vaguely clutched the side of the tender rib, wondering if it was broken or just bruised.

_I hope it isn't broken. I can't afford to go to the hospital now – the police will find me._

_(Do you think you can play the hero now? Whoever kidnapped dear ol' mom would laugh to see you now, _mocked Scarecrow.)

Jonathan gritted his teeth, trying to ignore Scarecrow as he kicked away the empty aluminum cans from the alley and struggled to reach its end. He hated almost how he was growing accustomed to the darkness and filth. Just a few days ago he was the head of Arkham Asylum and one of the most respected psychiatrists in the city. But since that night when the Bat-man broke into Arkham and the toxin was released into the city he was a hunted criminal, reviled by all maybe even loathed by Emily. He closed his eyes and gripped his side, the pain too great for a moment, before he continued on.

_How can I continue on, living like this? No food, no shelter – you have no idea where to look._

_(Jonathan, dear Jonathan, why don't you leave it in my hands? Scarecrow will take care of you.)_

_You tried to steal my life and my love! The hell with you!_

_(Jonathan, for a head of psychiatry you're being very irrational. Think this through. What options do you have? Who are your allies? You have no one – except me.)_

_Wrong! I have **no one!**_

Jonathan barged out of the end of the alley in anger and leaned against the vandalized brick wall, wheezing in pain. The street was still empty and darkness shrouded Gotham City in its sleep. How soon until Batman awoke and pursued him with renewed purpose he did not know. The cold pierced him now through the thin dress coat he usually wore to the office, but it could not keep out the long hours of icy chill he was being exposed to.

Hunger also gnawed at him and some thirst; Jonathan was scolding himself for leaving Emily's apartment so quickly without taking any provisions. But he was not interested in stealing from her cupboards or ransacking her pantry, not when he first held the accusing paper in his trembling hand. He knew this time would come, but how he hoped it wouldn't be so soon – that at least he could treasure one night with Emily. But she would see the paper, he couldn't hide it from her and he had to leave and leave quickly. He took what he came with and did not burden himself with extra pounds of food and water. Now as Jonathan was cold and hungry outside the alley he regretted it though, wishing somehow he could return to Emily, even ask for her forgiveness.

_No, she can't love me, not now. How can she? She knows what I have done._

_(Exactly, _whispered Scarecrow_. People are fickle, loving only what they can get out of you and when you are no longer of use to them they will turn on you as all of Gotham has! But I make no judgments on you, Jonathan. I lay no blame and will love you even when she no longer does.)_

_You are worse than any of them. Whereas I have been used and thrown aside you would possess me and destroy my life, my soul! _

Scarecrow continued to mutter, pleading his case but Jonathan no longer was in the mood. To engage in an argument took energy and he didn't want to waste it on something as pointless and frustrating as a fruitless debate with his inner demon. Jonathan walked some ways from the alley he emerged from and took several side streets before he found a small recessed area away from the main thoroughfare where he could rest; it wouldn't be a very obvious place for the police or Batman to go looking for him.

He sat down upon some crumpled newspapers but the cold of the pavement still seeped through his coat and he shivered slightly. The first pale golden rays of the dawn were visible over the jagged horizon of buildings and already some lights from a few random windows were turning on – early morning risers getting ready for the day ahead.

_How I wish I was back in my own bed and this was all just a nightmare I was about to wake up from. That any moment my alarm will go off, I'll be back in my own apartment and they will be expecting me at Arkham._

_And mother is still back in cell 221? Well if this were a dream, I'd wish she was back in her apartment and we were having coffee and cake before the terrible nightmare began, before her madness._

Although Jonathan wrapped the coat tightly around himself, he was shivering regularly now, unable to keep warm. He tucked his long legs closer to his lanky torso, hoping this would help trap some body heat.

_(Jonathan, you idiot! What do you think you're doing? Don't you realize I have a great destiny to fulfill!)_

But Jonathan didn't answer, his eyelids drooped and his head dropped upon his chest as he fell into unconscious exhaustion.

* * *

A golden light filled the room and everything seemed to move slow and gentle, the air almost seeming to hover in mid-breath. Jonathan walked into an empty room that seemed quite sparse, there was no carpeting upon the hardwood floors and on one end the walls were painted and on another it was wallpapered, as though the previous owners couldn't make up their mind on the decorating. 

As Jonathan walked into the room suddenly he noticed a woman was at the window, gazing outside. It seemed to be spring out, the breeze wafting in sweet apple-blossom scents and yellow and red tulips fluttered lightly in the garden. The woman had rich brunette hair and wore a white filmy gown which almost was luminescent against the sunlight coming through the window. Jonathan continued to approach the woman and tried to speak but found he couldn't. As he drew closer the woman turned and saw it was Emily, heavily pregnant. She gently stroked her belly and Jonathan smiled, joy filling his heart.

_Emily, the child – our child?_

But as he reached for her, to embrace her in love, in happiness and hope for their life together and the new life they created, she vanished and the window remained before him. Spring withered and faded away as the wind whistled bitter and cold. The corn swayed thick and heavy upon the stalks and a gruesome, evil looking Scarecrow glared back at him from out in the fields. Black crows cawed, their wings flapping upon the cold air and their beaks picked and pulled at the twine binding the evil Scarecrow fast to his pole out in the lonely cornfield. To Jonathan's horror, as the Scarecrow was pulled loose of the pole, it didn't fall like a rag doll into the cornstalks but instead began to walk toward the house.

_(Jonathan, you cannot escape. You cannot run away from me.)_

A shriek echoed in Jonathan's ears and now it was night within the house and so dark he couldn't see out into the cornfield – couldn't even see if Scarecrow was almost right at the house or inside the house now. But the shriek echoed again and Jonathan turned to find it within the room and coming from the crib. Jonathan slowly walked over to the crib and peered down at the blankets. Inside the darkened crib was an infant that had a gruesome Scarecrow mask over its head.

Jonathan angrily yanked the mask off the child but each time he did so it reappeared.

_No! Scarecrow what have you done! What have you done to my child?_

_(It is not your child, Jonathan, _gloated Scarecrow. _It is MINE!)_

* * *

Jonathan awoke with his heart racing and gasping for breath. He swallowed, his throat dry, his body trembling and wondered for how long he had slept. Although the day was overcast, it appeared to be late afternoon as pedestrians strolled by; not realizing who they passed once was the head of Arkham Asylum and one of the most hunted men in Gotham City. 

_The location is too obvious, go deeper into the shadows._

Jonathan stretched out his legs and found them stiff and numb, and when he rubbed them to return some circulation in them he was greeted with pins and needles. He suddenly felt water rolling down his cheek.

_No, I can't be crying._

But more droplets came from overhead, and then a sudden deluge as rain poured through the streets and pedestrians scrambled for cover. In less than a minute what little warmth provided by the thin dress coat was gone and he was colder than he imagined he could be and shivered uncontrollably.

_(Jonathan, you must find warmth and shelter. You will die out here. I can't allow that.)_

_Scarecrow being the rational one? I truly have gone insane!_

_(Jonathan, get up. Jonathan.)_

The rain was now coming down in sheets and the roads now had only the occasional car that would pass by, almost splashing water upon him from the dirty curb. With a trembling, wet hand, Jonathan dug into his soaking pant's pocket and yanked out a bottle.

_(Jonathan – what are you doing?)_

_I – I have rain water – I can take this – can get rid of you for now!_

_(Jonathan be sensible! Listen to me for once!)_

Jonathan gazed at the well worn pharmaceutical bottle that held his schizophrenia medication Zyprexa and as the rain hit the label the ink began to slowly bleed. Carefully he opened the childproof lid – which he always found absurd because he had no children to protect from taking his medications – but didn't open the lid right away, protecting the valuable pills from the pelting rain.

_(Well what are you waiting for? Take your damn pills! Banish me for now if that is what you want! But by doing so you are denying your greatness. Instead of being hunted by this city you could rule it! Instead of cowering in fear you could be invincible! Jonathan dwelling inside you is me. Whereas you are the caterpillar, I am the dragon!)_

_And you think what you told me will help your case_, asked Jonathan.

_(What choice do you have? You will be hunted for the rest of your days now! The police, the Bat-man – do you think they will ever stop hounding you? You are injured, cold, starving! What good are you now at finding mommy! And your pills, how long will they last before they too run out or you are caught? Face it, Jonathan, there is only one option left – Me!)_

He turned the pill bottle over in his hand, his eyes gazing at the label and its side effects.

_You're wrong, Scarecrow, I have more than one option. I could choose neither of us._

For a moment there was dead silence from Scarecrow, then a furious scream echoed through his mind.

_(No, Jonathan! NO! I won't allow it! You won't stop me! Not EVER! You won't stop me from my Reign!)_

Jonathan almost calmly looked at the pill's label warning _Do not take more than two tablets at once._

Scarecrow's fierce screams and curses rattled like a mad animal trapped in a cage. Daylight quickly faded with the severity of the storm. The cold rain turned to ice and gleamed like harsh prisms in the street lights. The pellets of ice cut into Jonathan's skin and fell like diamond tears upon his soaked coat. Weakly he pushed himself up against the wall to give himself more shelter from the storm, but he was so cold, soaked to the bone, shivering and tired. Jonathan's eyes almost drooped and recognized it as the beginnings of hypothermia.

A car passed by and in his half-dreamings he almost thought it looked familiar. Jonathan struggled to hold tight to the bottle, wondering if he should take all the pills or just one to quiet the shriekings of Scarecrow or silence him forever. The ice clattered in hard, thick sheets against the brick wall and pelted against the windshield wipers of the car as it stopped in front of him. Someone stepped out of the car and stood in front of him.

Exhausted and feeling like Jonathan was already hallucinating from not having his medication for so long, he stared at the person in front of him through water smeared glasses. The street lamp dimly shone upon the person who stood before him and the ice cascaded off the long, black coat.

"Ah, Jonathan, I have been looking for you, but did not expect to find you here."

"No, it can't be," whispered Jonathan.

"I would think you would be happy to see me. How the mighty have fallen, but not for long. We shall rebuild, and now that we have found you it shall not be so difficult. Come, Jonathan, we have work to do. Your genius will be most useful."

The large, muscular hand reached out and Jonathan hesitated, not wanting to take his hand.

_I trusted you and you betrayed me._

But suddenly the strong, firm grip of the hand grasped Jonathan's and pulled him to his feet as though Jonathan's weight was nothing. Jonathan gazed upon him part in relief, part in anger as he looked upon the man he had met three years ago – the man he had to thank for his current fallen state – Henri Ducard.


	13. Betrayal

A hand reached out and clutched a coarse, sweat drenched blanket in a small, dimly lit room that had only the bare essentials – a desk, a chair, a locker to keep one's clothes and of course the bed he now lay upon. Jonathan numbly realized the hand was his own, although he hardly had any sensation in it at the moment due to the intermittent fever and chills running through his body.

When he first was brought to this small room, Ducard had given his men an order "Keep him alive and keep him comfortable." But as Jonathan continued refusing food and only took a little water, the men who came in on scheduled intervals to check on him proved to be poor nurses. They had cold eyes and even worse bedside manners, brusquely removing the untouched food without a word.

As night fell and the room darkened, the illness grew worse and it seemed that Ducard's men had forgotten about him. Jonathan didn't expect much at this point, but the fever seemed to twist his mind in ways even he hadn't anticipated. Thankfully the door was closed and only the slightest muffled sound of men being put through military drills could be heard. A painful loneliness crept into Jonathan's heart and a tear rolled down his cheek. Soon in his misery he sobbed; his trembling hands pressed upon his burning face and a childish voice echoed in the back of his mind:

_I want my mom. I want my mom!_

But then a more adult Crane thought of Emily, how she might bundle him in a nice warm bed with thick blankets and bring him some hot soup. It was all very infantile and absurd, and Jonathan realized this, even as the fever addled his brain, the tears continued to stream from his eyes and the loneliness hollowed out his heart.

_Emily, I wish I didn't leave you now._

Jonathan closed his eyes and his hand loosened its grip upon the sweat soaked blanket.

* * *

Dr. Jonathan Crane was finishing his morning rounds at Arkham Asylum as he always had done, although things were different now. He recently had stepped into the shoes of head psychiatrist, replacing Dr. Henry Gooding after his mysterious, yet tragic psychotic breakdown in Mrs. Crane's room during her early morning therapy session. Dr. Crane proved more than adept at shouldering the burden of Gooding's as well as Crane's usual duties and didn't expect this morning to be any different. 

As he passed by the nurses' station, clipboard in hand, ready to see his first patient for the morning, Nurse Myers stopped him and mentioned he had a visitor waiting for him.

"I have no visitors on my schedule. If they would like to see me, they must make an appointment like anyone else." Crane stopped a moment. "Is it –?"

"No, it isn't him. A new visitor."

"Then I regretful must decline. Please schedule his appointment with me at some other time, Miss Myers."

Crane was on his way down the hall in his long strided, purposeful steps when Nurse Myers called back to him.

"He's willing to make a very generous donation to the asylum. But I will reschedule as you've requested, Dr. Crane."

He stopped in his tracks and heavily sighed.

"Just how generous is this donation," he asked.

"Please forgive me, Dr. Crane, he didn't cite any figures. I will reschedule."

"No, I will meet with him. If his donation is trivial, our discussion will be a very short one indeed."

Dr. Crane opened the door to the guest suite, a stark contrast to the rest of white washed Arkham with its muted colors. The suite had a fine polished brass handle, plush leather seats and a richly lacquered walnut table. Sitting behind the table wasn't Falcone, as Crane regrettably had grown accustomed to in the last few months in his dealings with the despicable crime boss of Gotham, but a man who was very different from fat cat Falcone.

He was heavy boned and muscular, wearing a fine black suit and a charcoal gray shirt underneath that brought out his storm-colored eyes. Unlike Jonathan, he seemed like a very physical man who had more than a few scuffles in his day as evidenced by his nose, which appeared to have been broken at some time in his life, but oddly did not detract from his rugged charm.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane, the foremost psychiatrist in Gotham City, it's a great honor," the man said.

Crane noted he had a hint of an Irish accent and his mind began to work at what secret benefactor from Ireland might take an interest in Arkham and perhaps if there was a hidden agenda here.

"The honor is all mine, sir," Crane said. "And what brings you to my humble establishment?"

"Oh, it is far from humble. A man like me is always looking for the extraordinary in all things – breakthroughs in science, medicine – psychiatry. Arkham Asylum once was a beacon of hope for many suffering from the scourge of mental illness. Sadly, over the years it has fallen into decay. But word has reached me of a brilliant young psychiatrist who has become the head of this asylum, one with new ideas – daring methods. One who is willing to explore the origins of Fear."

Crane examined the man a moment, trying to gauge whether he was sincere or trying to pry something hidden from him, something that should not be revealed to anyone.

"I am sincerely flattered, ah –"

"Call me Henri."

"Do you have a last name, Henri?"

"Ducard."

"Well then, Mr. Ducard. You are correct in some of your assumptions. I do explore the origins of Fear, but only for the benefit of my patients – to help them. And I was told of a donation on your part by Nurse Myers."

"Ah, a man of business! Something also to be admired."

Ducard slipped from his black coat a check book and something else, which he held tightly in his left fist. Crane gazed warily at the fist, reminded of his high school beatings and realizing what a physically powerful man Ducard was in comparison to Jonathan's slight build. But then Crane remembered the toxin he had hidden beneath his coat sleeve and felt more at ease.

Ducard tore a check out and turned it around and displayed it to him. Crane gazed at the check a moment, waiting for him to write out an amount, but when he didn't and just continued to sit there with a bemused grin upon his lips, Crane said:

"I am a very busy man and have no time for games, Mr. Ducard."

"Oh, this is no game, as you soon will see, Dr. Crane. You are a business man and I will make you very lucrative offer if indeed you are up to the challenge."

"And what 'challenge' are you implying, Mr. Ducard?"

He opened his closed fist and from it tumbled a small blue flower. Crane for a moment thought Ducard would be an apt candidate to be admitted to his asylum or if he wasn't insane, he might be an interesting study if Crane made him a patient. Vaguely Crane's fingers twitched at his briefcase, the Scarecrow mask lying hidden in its dark recesses.

"Now you would give me a boutonniere," Crane spat. "I know blue is my color but I have no taste for flowers."

Slowly Ducard picked up the delicate, slightly withered flower between his thumb and forefinger and gazed at it almost in awe.

"This little flower is the Key to Fear, more powerful than you can imagine. If you can unlock its secret, you may find greater rewards than you ever dreamed of."

"And does that include the donation you promised?"

The excitement and joy suddenly left Ducard's eyes at Crane's words.

"Yes – yes, of course it does."

Ducard turned the empty check around and scribbled out an amount before crumpling it into Crane's awaiting hand.

"Discover what's in that flower. Although others may not know it yet, you are the genius we've been waiting for who can do it – the Psychiatrist of Fear."

As the door slammed shut and Crane was left alone he looked at the amount written on the check – _$40,000_. He twirled the unassuming blue flower in between his fingers, studying it a moment, wondering what this rich lunatic might want from what looked like a cross between a poppy and a weed.

_Well, I'll distill it and discover its chemical properties, but am not expecting much. I can do that while I'm refining some of my toxin inhalants and at least there might be some money involved. _

He tucked the blue flower into his suit pocket and forgot about it for the rest of the day.

* * *

Dignitaries and the elite of society mingled easily at their circular tables draped with a fine linen cloth, nursing their vintage wines over their poached salmon with a sherry scallop sauce. A large banner spanned the stage, written in bold letters: The Society for the Improvement and Advancement of Humanity. Below this banner sat the honored guests and the committee for the society at a long table. Soon the awards would be given out and recognition to several nonprofits and organizations in the upcoming year.

In the dim candlelight at the table, Jonathan picked at his salmon with his fork, but he had little appetite. He had no taste tonight for the rich food and his mind was on Arkham and all the work he was missing by attending this function, but he couldn't afford to miss it if indeed Arkham was one of the beneficiaries this year; the grant could be substantial. So he suffered with the simpering socialites, the dull conversation, the tedious hours and the boring speeches, awaiting the moment when indeed the grants would be announced.

There was a hum of expectation in the audience as the lights dramatically dimmed and a woman in her early fifties with a stylish yet conservative black gown began with her long and well rehearsed speech about the founding and the mission statement of the society. Jonathan tried to stifle a sigh; he had heard this speech before and he felt his impatience grow much as it does toward the ramblings of an insane patient.

"And now, with your generosity and in keeping with the spirit of our founder, we will bestow the awards and grants on the following organizations," said woman in the black dress.

Slowly, dramatically she opened the list and began to read.

"To Anne Harkness House, we bestow $250,000 for the shelter for battered women."

Jonathan's eyes wandered around the table, gazing at the wealthy patrons whose eyes were riveted to the speaker, their polite smiles glued to their faces. He gazed at their fine clothes and the jewels about many of the matrons' necks, many of which would pay handsomely for his research at Arkham. How he hated having to scrape and beg for funds at these charity functions!

"To Anthony the Martyr Hospital, $2.5 million for construction of its new patient wing. To Astoria Retirement Home, $150,000 for its community-based assisted living facilities."

Jonathan suddenly froze, his fork pressed firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the woman, wondering if there had been some mistake. Perhaps she had skipped over one by accident?

"To Bethany Hospice, $15,000 for its in home care of the dying."

_No! It can't be. They couldn't have overlooked me! Not the crucial groundbreaking work I'm doing! A hospital, a shelter – a nursing home! What do they know of the inner workings and complexities of the mind? What do they know of the meaning of Fear!_

The fork clattered to the china plate loudly and startled some of the wealthy patrons at the table, who gazed at Jonathan in disapproval.

"If you _mind_," gasped a wealthy woman, a string of pearls studded with diamonds and emeralds glittering from her throat.

Jonathan gazed at the necklace – that alone would pay for his research for several years he was sure.

_But wealth is wasted on frivolous, empty-headed people like you – like all of you who have the money to give out to stupid causes like – like –_

"To the Dalmation Rescue and Rehabilitation Society, $5,000."

_I can't stay here! I can't listen to this idiocy any longer. I'm wasting my time when I can be back at Arkham doing something meaningful!_

Jonathan slid his coat off his chair and stooped, trying to make his departure from the table as unnoticeable as possible.

"What? You're leaving Dr. Crane," asked one of the gentlemen. "In the middle of the grants ceremony?"

"Please forgive me, but I have a very pressing matter at Arkham Asylum that demands my attention. It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance."

They still gazed in stunned shock as he folded his coat over his arm and carefully wound his way around the chairs in the darkened auditorium and made his way out the door. Her voice still echoed through the open door as she continued down her list.

"To the Dandelion Children's Daycare –"

Jonathan slammed the door shut so he wouldn't hear her voice anymore.

* * *

Darkness shrouded the docks and wetness gleamed upon the concrete as the workmen were busy loading crates on to barges and huge steamer ships, looming huge and ominous in the moonlight. A man in a long black coat gazed with little interest at the work going on into the late hours of the night. He checked his watch, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Henri Ducard grinned with some amusement.

"Punctual as always, Dr. Crane. Although I must confess, after our last appointment I had the impression you might not meet me again."

Jonathan's face tensed, his lips pursing as he gazed around at the workmen busy, but safely out of earshot. They were quite alone and assured of their privacy.

"You said you were willing to make me a lucrative offer if I met you here. So here I am," said Jonathan.

"Here you are indeed," said Henri with great satisfaction. "Come, let's start walking. I must say I was most impressed with how easily you were able to analyze and extract the chemical compounds from the blue flower I gave you. You have great potential, more than I believe many realize."

"And what do you see in me, Mr. Ducard?"

"A wonderful future, but one you don't yet see perhaps. You're frustrated, alone in your endeavors. No one sees your genius, appreciates your hard work. When someone has a vision, one so unique from the rest of the world, it's not always accepted, even when it is to the world's benefit and only you can see it."

Jonathan stopped walking and studied the older man's eyes, filled with pain but also fire at whatever vision only Ducard could see.

"What have others told you about me," Jonathan asked.

Ducard hesitated a moment, his grin gone, all seriousness in his face and gray eyes.

"That you've worked for all you've achieved, Jonathan. That you've made great sacrifices for all you've accomplished and you should be very proud of that. Your research – namely in Fear – the origins of Fear is what fascinated me. It is what brought me here to you – and to this city."

"Gotham City? I fail to see how this has anything to do with the business proposition you spoke of."

"Oh, but it does, Jonathan. It is your home, but it also is seething with corruption and crime. The only way to remedy this is to weaken the power structure of this corruption. That little blue flower you synthesized is just the beginning, but from such beginnings how the mighty do fall!"

Jonathan gazed at the shining lights of Gotham City, but also knew all the deep shadows, the filthy alleys, the simmering corruption, the crime taking place even at this moment at the hands of Falcone.

"If I didn't know better, I would think you were one of my patients back at Arkham, suffering from delusions."

"No, I don't think you do, because from such madness is born genius," said Ducard. "Money is power, but hold the city to ransom and then who does hold the power?"

"Are you saying we will be the ones terrorizing the city," asked Jonathan, his eyes growing cold. "Demanding ransom in exchange for innocent lives?"

"Ah, you are far too dramatic. Nothing so dire. No innocent life will be hurt – only the corrupt and the criminal will suffer. But we need something – Fear – as leverage to make our ransom work, to destabilize their power structure. We will use the drug, derived from the blue flower, and bring it into Gotham – and I will need your help."

Jonathan kept his face an unreadable mask and his eyes cool and distant while inside he was in turmoil and doubt. As Ducard kept talking, the warmth vanished from his eyes and fire replaced them until Jonathan realized that the man he originally met at Arkham was someone very different now, perhaps someone sinister and deadly.

Jonathan gazed at Ducard a moment and paused, the air thick with silence. Ducard was anxious for his answer, almost demanding it with his tense body language as though every muscle was ready to spring into action.

"I am sorry, Mr. Ducard. But I fear you have made the wrong choice. I am not the man for the job. You see, I am no criminal and have no desire to be one."

Jonathan turned around and began to walk away down the gleaming docks, keeping his line of sight toward the ships and the wading barges, no longer gazing at Ducard who was just a few feet behind him.

"Tell me, Jonathan, is it by mistake then you work for Carmine Falcone?"

Jonathan suddenly stopped and closed his eyes. He could hear Ducard slowly approaching him, his footsteps nearly muffled upon the damp concrete.

"Jonathan, it's okay. There's no need to worry. I am not with Falcone. I only ask you this: Do you want to work for Falcone forever?"

He lightly sighed and opened his eyes.

"No, not forever."

"But you must – for the money, for your research. Then I must tell you after this, never will you need Falcone, never will you have to bow or grovel to any of those rich empty-headed buffoons you have to curry favors from just to keep your asylum running."

The thought was attractive even though there was a warning deep within Jonathan's heart. There was always a price to pay no matter how good an offer seemed. Every quick and easy answer Jonathan had tried in the past seemed to crumble in his hands or twist into an outcome he hadn't expected.

"Don't be a slave to Falcone!"

"Instead I would be your slave, Henri?"

Ducard paused – it was the first time Jonathan had used Ducard's first name and he seemed genuinely touched.

"No, Jonathan – never. You will help bring in the shipments and place it in the water supply. You yourself said the drug is harmless ingested. But this will be enough to shock the corrupt and give us the leverage we need."

"It's too risky and I have a reputation to keep."

"Of course, you will keep complete anonymity. The ransom will take place through a separate party – a league of sorts."

"And the toxin will not be released on anyone?"

"Not unless you give the word on it," said Ducard.

"Very well. And what happens after the ransom?"

"Twenty percent of the ransom will be delivered to you – say $10 million. Then the rest is up to you if you want to have further dealings with me. You and Gotham City may never see me again if you wish."

Jonathan nodded, wondering if this was all a lie, a carefully planned plot to seduce him into a scheme. Perhaps Ducard was working for Falcone and this was just to ensnare him and then kill him for his betrayal. But never to be beholden to the snobs of society and to have that kind of money for research would be of great use to him. That was more money than he could ever hope for from Falcone, especially when of late he was more interested in exchanging favors than cash.

"Do we have a deal," asked Ducard.

Jonathan's hands were cold and his heart suddenly raced within his chest. He studied the gentle smile upon Ducard's lips, the warmth in his eyes again.

_This could be my death – or a new life._

He raised his trembling hand and quickly and firmly Ducard grasped it and shook it within his.

"A wise decision, Jonathan. I thank you and mankind will thank you. Whether you realize it or not, tonight you are a hero."

_Then why do I not feel like a hero_, Jonathan thought as a sinking feeling settled into his heart.

* * *

He suddenly gasped and opened his eyes. The blanket no longer was damp and pale sunlight filtered through the small, heavily grated window that was high to the ceiling, reminding Jonathan of a room in a basement – or a cell. His eyes wandered about the room and slowly he recalled what had happened to him since that fateful night, that night that had changed everything for him. There had been no money after all; no promise of a bright future, no secure funds for Arkham Asylum, which now lay in ruin thanks to Ducard's scheme. It was betrayal and deceit on a massive scale and Jonathan, as much as he was awash in bitterness and hatred toward Ducard, was filled with self-reproach at not rejecting his proposal outright.

_You know how these always end, Jonathan Crane and now you've lost what you most love._

He swallowed, his throat dry and hot, and reached for the glass of water on the table. Jonathan began to drink thirstily, even the room temperature water seeming refreshing and when he was ready to set it back on the table, he heard:

"Glad to see you're finally awake."

Jonathan nearly dropped the glass in shock. He hadn't seen anyone in the room. Was it Ducard? No it couldn't be, not in this early hour and not in his room! He gazed in panic at the four walls and saw no one.

"You knew you would not be rid of me so easily, Jonathan."

Within his mind he felt Scarecrow crawling up from the depths of his subconscious, but this time he was not creeping like a thief, hoping Jonathan would approve of his presence. This time he emerged with more bravado, triumphant and proud, his presence like a scythe ripping through the clouds of thought.

"Ah, Jonathan at last, we shall make something of ourselves, you and I. What great things we shall do together!"

Jonathan fumbled within his pants pocket, searching for his medication bottle, realizing it must have been over 14 hours since his last dose – which might be enough to give Scarecrow a solid foothold into his psyche.

"Jonathan, don't fight me. It's destiny you and I are together. Gotham City will be ours and Emily, ah sweet Emily – is there something wrong, Jonathan? You're trembling."

He was frantically searching his pants pockets, turning them inside out and even grabbed the suit coat that had been thrown over the chair next to the bed and dug through its pockets too.

The pharmaceutical bottle containing his schizophrenia medication was gone.


	14. Ducard's Plan

That morning he didn't wear the suit that was customary and in fashion in Gotham City. Henri Ducard wore what he felt most comfortable in, his sleek black martial arts outfit that was both simple and elegant. He had worn such dress in the Himalayas for so long that wearing Western clothing, as he had to do during his visits to Gotham City, felt odd and even uncomfortable. It was a welcome relief to abandon the suit jacket and stiff, confining trousers to the beautiful, yet practical Asian styles again.

Ducard watched almost in paternal pride as he watched his ninja going through their warm ups before engaging in deadly combat to keep their skills fresh and their minds keen. The "courtyard" the ninja practiced wasn't the beautiful oriental setting Ducard had enjoyed in the Himalayas – the home Bruce had so arrogantly destroyed. The ninja now practiced in an expansive concrete court flanked by equally thick stone walls. He was thankful that he had found this compound, an old military base located forty miles outside Gotham City that no longer was in use. It eagerly was sold at a trifling sum to pay for the military's ongoing and never ending wars.

_Such fools. So busy fighting on foreign soil they wouldn't know a threat if it was right beneath their noses,_ Ducard thought in amusement.

Ducard heard a slight rustle in fabric and the faint footsteps of a black clad ninja approaching along with the easily heard, long-strided footsteps of another man. Ducard turned away from the view of the enclosed courtyard toward the claustrophobic hallway with few windows and even less decoration – stark in all its features.

_Well, that should make Jonathan feel at home then, very much like Arkham._

The ninja gave a quick, reverent bow to Ducard.

"As you requested, Dr. Crane is here to see you at 0800 hours."

"Very good. Thank you, Tiao."

Tiao bowed and just as quickly and silently was gone, vanishing down the narrow, poorly lit hallway. Ducard gazed at Jonathan, who looked very different from when he first saw him. Jonathan looked markedly pale this morning and tired, weariness showing in his eyes and something else Ducard noted, desperation perhaps – or fear. Perhaps he was imagining things, but despite his circumstances, Ducard noted that Dr. Crane did clean up nicely. Ducard was more than happy to give him a new, clean suit that he believed was close enough to the young man's lanky frame and it seemed to fit him well enough.

"Jonathan, so good to see you. I trust you are feeling better?"

"Better than yesterday, thanks to you. You have quite an establishment here – one I was not aware of. I believed you were located solely within Asia and would visit here only briefly."

"So it was, Jonathan, but circumstances, as you imagine, have changed. Truth be told, I always had a few of my colleagues throughout the world, but only of late have I needed this base."

Jonathan gazed at Ducard a moment, studying him with those cool blue eyes, but no warmth or friendship dwelt within in them.

"And how long have you been here at this base – before that night when my toxin was released on Gotham?"

"Is that what is troubling you, the toxin? Ah, Jonathan, that was beyond my control and that was not my doing."

"If it wasn't who was it? Only you knew the extent the toxin ran through the water supply."

Ducard heavily sighed as Jonathan's icy stare pierced into him.

"Let's walk. Clearly you have some misinformation, spread by my enemies. Many things happened on that terrible night, Jonathan."

"Call me, Dr. Crane."

"Very well. The ransom began as planned, initiated by the anonymous league as I told you, but something went wrong, there was a leak. We think it might have been Falcone's men, dressed as policemen, who raided your asylum and caused the destruction."

Jonathan was silent a moment, his face unreadable as they passed through the narrow hallways with no windows and door after locked door concealing secrets but revealing none.

"You seriously don't expect me to believe that," Jonathan said.

"I do, because it is the truth. Should I tell you lies to make you feel better," Ducard asked.

"No, I do not wish that, but your explanation leaves much to be desired. I trust there is no money – none of the money you were so eager to promise me?"

"I fear you are correct in your assumption. The ransom fell through and with it the millions not only you anticipated but I and my colleagues so desperately had hoped for."

"Of course," Jonathan murmured almost to himself in disgust. "Then tell me, why need me now, Ducard? If indeed your plan is shattered and everything is ruin, why not leave before the police find you?"

"You think too small, which probably is why you still are in Gotham," Ducard said. "No, all is not lost as I told you, but to salvage what is left, I need help and that includes your help, but I still am not assured of your cooperation. That is why I brought you here, so you can see what I am doing and what I will do."

Jonathan suddenly stopped walking and Ducard, who was maintaining a swift, purposeful stride, his mind flooded with his future vision, at first nearly left Jonathan behind. Ducard turned, gazing at Jonathan who stared coldly at the older man.

"What is it? Something wrong," Ducard asked. "Perhaps what I have told you hasn't convinced you of yet or is there something you are in need of?"

"There are many things I am in need of, Ducard. Many things I have not been provided with from our first 'deal' to be convinced to enter into a new devil's bargain. But answer me this – when you found me, I had with me a certain possession, which I did not find on me this morning."

Ducard frowned, but a glimmer of curiosity or amusement dwelt within his eyes as he slowly approached Jonathan.

"What is it you are missing? Perhaps I may be of service if I know specifically what it is you have lost."

Jonathan's lips pursed and his eyes clouded with inner turmoil. If he told Ducard of the medication he was taking, he'd reveal to him his weakness, the schizophrenia and possibly Scarecrow, and this in turn might be used against him. But if he didn't take his medication soon, Scarecrow was sure to emerge unbidden and beyond Jonathan's control, and even worse, taking over his life and mind. It was a terrible choice one way or the other and already he could feel Scarecrow, like a growing cancer crowding out his healthy thoughts and pressing against his own identity.

"It's of no matter – a trivial thing – it can easily be replaced when I return to Gotham to retrieve some of my work, which I'm sure can benefit you here," said Jonathan. "I am no prisoner here, correct?"

"Of course not, you never were. Although there will be some precautions taken, you are quite valuable to us as you know. A few ninja will escort you."

"No, just provide the transportation and I will go alone," Jonathan said. "I am able to take care of myself."

"Even against Batman?"

"The Bat-man … what do you know of him?"

"Only that he is a very dangerous adversary, one I would not want you to face alone," Ducard said. "I realize that you are more than capable, but I have faced Batman before and almost did not escape with my life."

"Was this the night of the ransom?"

Ducard slightly smiled.

"Oh, yes – yes it was."

* * *

Batman loomed over him and Ducard realized the bitterness of defeat as he lay upon the dirty, shivering metal floor of the monorail train. He gazed at Batman and saw beyond the rippling cape and menacing black mask to see who was hidden beyond it, the young man he once rescued from the filthy damp Asian jail so long ago. He had hopes for Bruce then, a bright future in the League of Shadows. He had dreamed this night Bruce would be at his side, his right hand man as Gotham fell into ruin, not that they would be adversaries. 

Yes, all Ducard had taught Bruce, about turning fear on one's enemy, on stealth, speed, cunning and of course theatricality had been turned against him until now the student was ready to be deal his teacher the death stroke.

_But I don't fear death, Bruce. No, that is not what I fear. I am ready for death. I have been ready since my dear wife died and I am ready to join her._

Ducard gazed at the sharp weapon gripped in Batman's hand, then into his former protégée's eyes.

"Have you finally learned to do what is necessary," Ducard asked.

"I won't kill you," Batman said with finality. "But I don't have to save you."

In the same awful second Ducard expected the merciful, killing blow, Batman hurled the weapon and he felt a burst of heat from the explosion and the shattering of glass as a whole wall of the train broke apart. Just as quickly, Batman opened his wings and was gone, swept up on a hot updraft of wind and Ducard suddenly was alone, alone with Death as the train hurtled out of control with seconds until it met its fiery doom.

For a fraction of a second Ducard closed his eyes, welcoming his fate, the image of his lovely wife flashing before him, but then his heart stopped and time froze. His hand reached toward his belt and the wind whistled shrill and harsh at his face. When he opened his gray eyes again they were steely with firm determination and unshakable will. Nothing would stop Henri Ducard, the powerful Ra's al Ghul! Before him he saw the twisted rail reaching an abrupt and lethal end. Ducard, without thinking or feeling, ran to the train's brink, where the wind was howling and Death waited before him with its black shrouded wings.

As his feet left the edge of the floor, he leapt powerfully into the air just seconds before the train plummeted to its fiery death. While the train bloomed below him like a lethal crimson fire flower, Ducard shot a metal grapple through window. For a few terrifying seconds the grapple did not grasp anything as he began to plummet as quickly downward toward the inferno that awaited him, but then the grapple held fast to the concrete at the window's edge and he slammed hard and painfully into the brick as his boots scraped against the wall. He heard the fires burn and crackle hungrily below him as he climbed upon the wire, reaching at last the shattered window and the empty and darkened room inside – a place of refuge and safety.

Batman had left him for dead a second time, but Ra's al Ghul, like the phoenix, had emerged alive from his own funeral pyre.

* * *

"I warn you Batman is more dangerous an adversary than you realize," Ducard said to Jonathan. "It nearly cost me my life in my confrontation with him. It would be advisable you have the ninja to protect you." 

"You may have fought with the Bat-man, but I don't want your ninja spying on me in Gotham," Jonathan said emphatically.

Ducard gazed at Dr. Crane, whom he needed to enlist for his new plan. He turned to the younger man, the man with the cold blue eyes, strong will and enigmatic personality.

"It is for your own protection. They will keep their distance and you may carry on in your own affairs unhindered by them – agreed?"

Jonathan heavily sighed and pursed his lips.

"Very well, then."

A ninja stealthily passed them through the narrow hall in his sleek black tunic and pants. Barely a whisper of sound or breath passed between them.

_A man in black. He took her._

"Were they there – at Arkham that night," Jonathan asked.

"Ninja? And why would they be? I told you Falcone's men were there."

"I just noticed the ninja was wearing black."

"All ninja do, Jonathan. It helps conceal them, conceal their identity."

Jonathan's eyes turned to ice as he gazed at the retreating ninja, then at Ducard and it almost made Ducard fear Jonathan – almost.

"Come. This line of thought is clearly upsetting you," Ducard said. "Let's continue walking. We have far more pressing matters to discuss."

"Such as?"

"Such as the burning question you must be wondering about – why exactly you are here. Well that will be answered soon enough."

Ducard turned the corner and a pair of ninja guarded a set of doors. At their master's presence, the ninja bowed their heads and stepped aside, allowing Ducard and Jonathan to enter the room. For all the secrecy, the guarded room seemed a huge disappointment in Jonathan's eyes. The small room held little more than a few padded chairs and a large walnut table. From what Jonathan could see the file cabinets seemed empty and the great display case on the wall was quite bare. As far as Jonathan was concerned there seemed nothing to guard and nothing to hide within the confines of this room, but he also knew looks could be deceiving.

Ducard invited him to sit down and then made himself comfortable in a chair opposite him in almost a bizarre reenactment of their familiar ritual back at Arkham where their secret negotiations would take place.

"I know you have suffered much," Ducard said. "And have lost much because of what has happened and I partly am to blame for this. I am not surprised you hate me, but I ask that you not let personal feelings and judgments influence what I am about to tell you … Jonathan, I know you love Gotham City, but I also know that much cruelty and injustice has been visited upon you."

Jonathan suddenly froze to his chair while Ducard gazed at him in all seriousness. Although Jonathan revealed nothing in his eyes and face, suddenly terror struck within his heart. Just what did Ducard know about him?

"I don't know what you are talking about," Jonathan said flatly.

"Your mother, Mrs. Crane – what happened to her was the epitome of injustice, but sadly it is but one case in many in this city. It is rotting on the inside out, like a house infested by termites, and eventually it will crumble and fall from its own corruption."

"Then what do you suggest? Overhaul the court system? Rehire a new police force? Run for politics? This is all very amusing, but quite pointless, Ducard. I fear this is all a waste of my time."

"Again thinking on too small a scale and too mundane a solution. No, I ask you what must be done to a house so badly infested by termites it no longer is fit to live in?"

"It is condemned," Jonathan said.

"Exactly, but what else happens to the condemned house?"

"The house, most likely, is destroyed."

"So it is," Ducard said.

Jonathan frowned as he watched Ducard leave his seat and move to the empty display case and unlock the plate of glass. Ducard popped out the back panel and retrieved a steel box, which he brought with him to the table.

"And I also ask you, who shall destroy the house, Jonathan? Who will protect the rest of humanity from such a treacherous place so they are not hurt when it finally collapses from its own decadence?"

Ducard withdrew a key and snapped open the box, then gazed at Jonathan with his steely gray eyes.

"Remember what I am about to show you and that you are not to repeat what I am to tell you."

"If you think this is impressing me," Jonathan said. "You are mistaken!"

"Ah, finally some fire in the ice. That can be more useful still."

"Whatever games you are playing, Ducard –"

Jonathan felt his teeth grating and anger rising within him. In his mind he felt Scarecrow growing and pressing against the boundaries of his mind, scratching at his skull, longing to be free. Jonathan gazed down and saw his hand slightly shaking – early signs of withdrawal from his medication – and the effects would worsen and Scarecrow's power would strengthen the longer he went without it.

Ducard withdrew a map and carefully unfolded it upon the table. For a moment Jonathan was disinterested in whatever Ducard wanted to show him, but as he turned his gaze to the map, he realized it was one of the oddest maps he had seen. There were no street names, no landmarks, no buildings, no parks and no lakes upon it, just a complex network of pipe work that seemed like a labyrinth. Ducard pressed his finger upon the fine paper of the expansive and detailed map that seemed like some plumber's guide to the largest water complex in history.

"This you should be familiar with, although you dealt with it indirectly," Ducard said. "It is the Gotham City sewer system – the water main where your toxin ran. Now it is the location of something more specific and more deadly."

Jonathan gazed at Ducard as though he surely was ready to be admitted to Arkham.

"The time for subtlety is over. You must understand this," said Ducard. "The ransom has failed. The corrupt and evil men of society have refused this. Now we must take further action – action that will destroy this seat of corruption!"

Ducard pressed his finger to the map and pointed at a small red circle at one point of the pipeline's junctures.

"Do you see that, Jonathan?"

"Yes."

"That is an explosive."

Jonathan's blood suddenly froze and he felt as if suddenly he breathed his own Fear Toxin.

_Oh no, please God no._

"As you see, Jonathan, the ransom is over. The toxin proved a poor measure of persuasion, so we must eliminate them – all of them. We must destroy Gotham City."

Jonathan frantically was gazing at the map, at every red circle littered in the pipe lines and there were many, more than he realized now. How could he have been so blind to them before? And there was a huge red circle with a marking like an "S" at the center of the labyrinthine pipe network. Jonathan swallowed hard, trying to ease his breathing, but his heart was pounding and he could feel his hand trembling again. Scarecrow screamed in rage within his skull.

With great effort, Jonathan steadied his hand and pointed to the large circle.

"And that certainly is no ordinary explosive," Jonathan said.

"No, it isn't," Ducard said. "That one is the master explosive, so powerful it will trigger all the others. The very foundation of Gotham City will collapse and burn beneath their very feet. Even Batman will be unable to stop it or prevent me in this."

Jonathan gazed upon the map in shock and sorrow, looking at the Map of Death laid out before him, feeling powerless and hopeless.

"Why are you doing this, Ducard? Gotham City is corrupt, yes, but so many innocent people will die."

"Innocent? Who is innocent, Jonathan? Women, children, your dear mother who has been languishing at your asylum for how many years? No, no one is innocent. There are only those who fight for what is just – and those who stand in the way. Are you with me or against me?"

"No! I can't – I can't –"

"Then your choice is indeed simple," Ducard said. "I one time made a mistake with a student of mine. I gave him my trust – and yes my love – and he turned against me when I least expected it. But I will not make that mistake again."

Ducard reached into the opened steel box and withdrew from it an 8mm pistol. Its harsh, cold steel gleamed in the sickly room light. Jonathan's heart seemed to stop as he stared point blank down the muzzle while Ducard casually pointed the weapon at him.

"I said you have a choice and the choice is quite simple," Ducard said. "It is this: Either choose your death – or the death of Gotham City."


	15. The Precipice

A small black van rolled inconspicuously through the streets of Gotham City, obeying all the traffic signals and going at the speed limit as many cars raced ahead. The van's driver could not be seen through the black tinted glass, reflecting the city back on itself like a mirror. As the light turned green, it turned off down a side street and pulled up next to a curb. In a smooth, effortless motion, the van's side door unlocked and slid back, revealing three black ninja crouched within the shadows of the van and Jonathan Crane in the midst of them.

Slowly Jonathan got out, his feet feeling unstable upon the pavement after the cramped quarters and bumpy ride within the van, feeling ill at ease surrounded by assassins with no faces and no names. Quickly the ninja followed, jumping out of the van and as Jonathan turned to see the ninja behind him they were gone, which made him feel even more sick to his stomach than if they were at his back.

_For my protection? They are nothing more than Ducard's spies. _

As Jonathan stepped back from the van, the vehicle quickly sped away from the curb and disappeared out of sight down the street. He imagined the ninja had some communication device to signal to the van when he was done with his affairs. Jonathan began to walk down the lonely, cold street and his breathed in the icy air, hoping it would invigorate him in some way.

No longer were just his hands trembling, he could feel it had to spread to his body but had masked it by what he did best, sitting and standing rigidly, but soon he knew it would become so noticeable even he could not hide it anymore. What was worse than the shaking was Scarecrow, growing stronger, his voice sounding clear and beating at Jonathan's consciousness like a hammer.

The grinding of wheels on asphalt approached and Jonathan, to his surprise, saw it was a Gotham police car patrolling this backstreet.

_How tempting to run out into the street and tell him that he's in danger. That this city soon will be in ruin!_

Jonathan turned around and saw a brief black shadow before it disappeared again around a corner.

_You are such a fool. The ninja would kill you before you could speak a word to any cop – and the city will be blown up by a madman._

Jonathan heavily sighed in despair as the cop car drove by, unaware of the terrible danger the city was in and the heavy secret he now bore within his heart. A familiar building approached, a red brick structure with gray stone lining the windows. The sight in some ways was a relief – he didn't know if he would ever see this place again. Slowly he approached the entrance with a small gray overhang roof and took a deep breath as he removed his keys, passing through the room people wait in as they are buzzed into by the occupants of the apartment, and using his key, he unlocked the door to reach the elevator to the upper level.

The lights remained on in the hall but everything was silent, which didn't surprise him at this late an hour. As he approached the door with the brass label reading 407, he paused and took a deep breath before he slipped the key into the lock and turned, hoping it would work. To his amazement it clicked open – the locks hadn't been changed or perhaps it was too soon still.

_Or maybe this is a trap._

But Jonathan had no time for caution or subtlety. Already he felt perspiration on his forehead and felt his will growing weaker as Scarecrow's grew stronger. More and more Jonathan's thoughts were being replaced by Scarecrow's in his consciousness and he was becoming too weak to fight it. He threw open the door and gazed inside his apartment. What he saw resembled little of what he remembered.

Instead of the immaculately organized and clean apartment Jonathan left it in, everything was in disorder and looked as though barbarians had ransacked the place. Cushions had been thrown off the foundation of the sofa, books toppled from the bookcase and papers scattered everywhere on the floor. Jonathan's heart sank as he saw the chaos and what was left of his home. It reminded him far too much of what had happened to his second home – Arkham Asylum and like his beloved asylum, this was the consequence of the deception of Ducard. The police obviously had raided his home for information on the release of the toxin – if he hadn't made his deal with Ducard, he'd still be head of Arkham and not hunted by the police.

_No, now things are worse than the police or the destruction of Arkham and you know it. The death of Gotham City._

Jonathan honestly didn't know if he could find what he was looking for in this destruction now. He ignored the papers and books, and began digging through the drawers, sifting through its contents, frantic as his hands trembled and his perspiration grew.

_Damn! Where is it! It must be here somewhere!_

"Jonathan, why fight it?"

"Shut up!"

"Why do you fear me? It's the fear of others I desire. Jonathan, we are friends."

"Friends don't try to destroy the other's life," Jonathan spat as he rushed into the washroom, frantically searching the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

"This won't happen again – I promise. I was driven mad – mad by the toxin. But Ducard, we shall destroy him. Let us fight him together, Jonathan. Let us make him taste his own Fear. Let us make him pay for how he's wronged us!"

"Scarecrow stop!"

"Look at what he's done to us. Taken away your life, your future. Arkham is gone. Your psychiatry career is over. Emily no longer loves you. Let us break his spirit, then destroy his soul through madness!"

Jonathan pressed his trembling hands to his face, gasping, unable to make Scarecrow stop, realizing now he no longer spoke in his mind but with his own voice.

"Jonathan, Gotham City is ours. You know this. It always has been _ours._ We must take it from Ducard!"

"Enough!"

He slammed the mirror closed and a long thin crack ran down the glass, splitting his image in two. For a moment Jonathan gazed at his image, weak, pale and haggard before it suddenly changed as Scarecrow smiled back at him.

Jonathan staggered into the bedroom, exhausted and sick, and saw even the bedroom had not been spared. The sheets had been ripped off and the pillow thrown aside. Jonathan for a brief moment fell upon the bed, enjoying just the familiar feel and softness of it, but fought dozing off, even as Scarecrow continued his tirade in his mind. Jonathan grabbed something soft, pulled it to him to cover him briefly and closed his eyes.

"Jonathan, don't you dare fall asleep on me!"

As he pulled it to his chin something rattled and suddenly he no longer felt sleepy. Jonathan realized what he held in his hand – a robe, and quickly dug through its pockets and found something, a pharmaceutical bottle. He barely remembered the night so long ago when he first argued with Scarecrow and threatened to up his dosage of his schizophrenia medication. Then he had shoved the bottle in his robe pocket and had forgotten about it since he kept medication at work as well, which he usually took in his office. There weren't many pills left, but Jonathan thought grimly there might not be much time left anyway.

* * *

Scarcely an hour had passed since he first had entered his apartment, but Jonathan didn't want to linger too long in his beloved home or else arouse suspicion – or worse, the ninja would come looking him. Jonathan had a few books and some papers in his arms to look like that was what he truly came for and was about to step out onto the sidewalk and down the street when he saw someone approaching down the street. Jonathan thought it would be safer just to let this pedestrian pass and then to travel when there was no one else to see him.

From the rhythmic clicking of heels on the pavement, he could tell it was a woman and for some strange reason, he almost had the compulsion to escort her, realizing how late the hour was and how lonely the street had become.

_Jonathan, how strange you've become since you've discovered the city is about to be destroyed and this woman most likely will die._

But then the clicking stopped and Jonathan, who was waiting in silence beneath the overhang, was tempted to peak out and gaze at who this woman was.

"Jonathan," whispered a familiar voice and he felt he was imagining things.

"Jonathan, is that you?"

He nearly dropped his books at the voice and slowly moved out from beneath the overhang.

"Emily?"

As he looked out down the lonely street he saw a woman in her late twenties with brunette hair and chocolate brown eyes gazing back at him. Never did he recall her looking so lovely, surprised and sad all at once.

"Oh, Jon!"

She raced up to him where he stood, threw her arms around him and suddenly he felt the books and papers slip from his grasp and fall to the ground as he held her soft body close to him and their lips met in a passionate kiss. For a moment all time stood still and fears and cares fell away in her embrace, but then her sweet, soft lips parted from his and he gazed into her eyes.

"Jonathan, why did you leave? Why?"

"I – I'm so sorry. I –"

Momentarily he looked down the streets to see if the ever-present shadows were watching them. At the moment they appeared to be gone.

"Please, Emily, it's cold. Let's go inside."

Emily frowned a moment, but then nodded. Jonathan scooped up his books and crumpled papers, and they went into the small waiting area of the apartment building. Emily looked at Jonathan in disbelief, caressing his cheek.

"I searched all over Gotham for you. I didn't know where else to look. Finally I searched for your address in the phone book. I went to all the Cranes in the area."

"On foot?" Jonathan nearly laughed.

"No! My car is just down the street. I needed to get out to check on the street address."

"But Emily, it's so late. And I don't deserve this – not after what I've done to you … I didn't want to leave you."

His hand drifted through her soft brunette hair and she seemed close to tears while he fought a lump in his throat.

"Then why did you leave," Emily asked.

"I was afraid the police would think you were involved with what I had done – with all of this."

Jonathan looked down at his papers and books, which were harmless in and of themselves but held bits and pieces of his research into psychiatry and the Fear Toxin he had created.

"But you could have talked to me instead of running out – instead of leaving me. What was I to think? Left alone with just that horrible news story saying you dumped some poison into the water supply! Jonathan what have you done? What trouble are you in?"

He gazed at her, longing to tell her while she desired to hear what he had to say, but then he closed his eyes.

"More trouble than I could have imagined now – and I can't drag you into it. I care for you too deeply."

"At least tell me what trouble you are in," Emily said. "I might not be able to help, but don't be so quick to drive me away. Quit sheltering me. I'm not some delicate flower you have to keep protecting."

* * *

Outside the ninja had moved closer to the apartment like an ever creeping black shadow that surrounded the complex. They gazed at the windows with watchful eyes and saw the young woman who talked with Jonathan. A ninja slipped out a cell phone and called the van, telling the driver to come by the apartment soon, for Jonathan had company.

* * *

"Now that I've told you, do you believe any of it," Jonathan asked.

"It seems so unbelievable. And this Ducard, do you think he's telling the truth?"

"I don't know. He's told me so many lies. In my heart I don't want to believe him. I wish this were all a lie, maybe a twisted test to see what I'll do. How I wish this were a lie, Emily! But what if it isn't?"

Emily lapsed into silence, her eyes downcast and Jonathan felt sorrow settle into his heart. He put down the papers and books, and gently clasped her arms.

"If it isn't a lie – if I don't see you again."

"No, Jon, don't think like that."

"I must do something. I can't let him do this. I can't sit by and let this happen – let you die," he said.

"Shhh," Emily whispered.

She was so close their lips nearly touched again, the warmth of their breath upon each other. Jonathan ached for her and wished to stay, even thought of escaping with her in her car, escaping from Ducard and even the doomed city. But no, the ninja were watching, they might kill him or Emily. And even if they escaped he'd blame himself for the rest of his days for choosing a coward's fate while millions of lives perished and he might have prevented it. He felt like he now stood at the edge of a cliff, feet still on the earth but behind him a dangerous precipice and beyond the endless black void; the only one holding him in place, keeping him from falling from the brink was Emily.

"I must go," he said. "I'm being watched."

Emily gasped when she heard this, her eyes growing wide.

"By Ducard? Here?"

"Yes, and I must go, now. I am sorry"

"No more apologies, Jon. If this is to be the last time we see each other, I wanted to tell you something. Before you left, I was about to tell you that – that I love you."

"And do you still feel this way, Emily?"

She paused, before tenderly kissing him on the lips and whispering, "I do, Jon. I do."

"And Emily there is one last thing I must tell you. Long ago you asked me what I feared. I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want to let my guard down then. So many people have hurt me in the past and are still hurting me now, but I want to tell you this. What I fear is the people I most love will leave me."

Emily smiled. "Jon, this is nothing to be ashamed. Everyone has this fear."

"But I can't afford to have any fears. For the longest time I was the master of fear. I was impervious to it. I wielded it like weapon over others."

Emily shook her head in disbelief.

"I don't understand. Jon, what are you saying?"

Jonathan paused, his eyes filled with longing and sadness.

"Just I don't want to lose you. If I did, I think he at last would gain control over me."

"Who? Ducard?"

"No, the master of fear."

"Jon, why the riddles, you know I'm no good at them!"

A shadow stirred outside and Jonathan looked through the window as though it was the seal on his fate rather than just the restless movements of the ninja.

"Emily, I must go."

He embraced her hard as though he would never feel her in his arms again or the sweet caress of her lips of the gentle touch of her breath.

"Know that whatever happens, I love you," he whispered. "And in two day's time leave the city!"

Hungrily they kissed and embraced one last time before they parted. Tears streamed down Emily cheeks as Jonathan hurriedly scooped up the papers and books, and ran out the doors and into street. Emily covered her face, trembling, not seeing as the ninja surrounded Jonathan and the black van came by and spirited them away. When she looked up again he was gone like a dream and she burst out the doors into the street, angry and sorrowful. After so much searching and heartache, in her moment of joy and triumph at finding Jonathan at last, she was all alone again. All alone on the cold, dark street – alone with the knowledge Gotham City soon would die.


	16. Emily's Secret

"You realize what must be done now," Ducard said, staring fixedly at Jonathan.

Jonathan had been escorted back by the ninja to their military compound base outside the city limits with his papers and books still in hand to disguise his true purpose of the visit to the city. Ducard seemed unaware still of Jonathan's true intension as he sat across from him at the table now in the heavily guarded meeting room they met before. The books on psychiatry and chemistry were stacked neatly on one side of the table along with his piles of notes. Ducard briefly gazed at books and papers and said:

"I see your visit to Gotham was not wasted and reason indeed has returned to you," Ducard said. "The time is soon at hand. You did not disappoint me with the Fear Toxin and I do not expect you will disappoint me now."

"I might have agreed to have helped to you, but as you know I didn't have much choice," Jonathan said bitterly. "Poor friends and allies are made at gunpoint."

Ducard slightly smiled, but he seemed amused at the remark.

"Quite true, but I don't need you as a friend. Just do this job to the best of your ability and you will not be disappointed, I assure you."

"And what would you have me do this time?" Jonathan felt his heart sink, realizing full well the true plan of Ducard.

"Now that I see you have all your affairs in order from Gotham, let's use some of the compounds you've synthesized with the Fear Toxin."

"The Fear Toxin? You mean plant it in the water supply again?"

"No, this will take weeks, it only needs to be airborne, correct," asked Ducard.

"Yes, that is correct."

"We shall plant some of the toxin near the surface, away from the explosion. This will be released into the air with the explosion's force. The toxin will be necessary, as the explosion won't kill everyone."

Jonathan frowned, gazing into the eyes of the madman.

"The toxin is not designed to kill," Jonathan said flatly.

"It is in concentrated doses," Ducard said. "You can do this – and I expect you to."

Several days had passed since their meeting and Ducard was busy making the final arrangements before the death of Gotham City could be set into action. Already operations had moved from the military compound to the scene of Zero Hour – the Gotham City Water Works, an intricate complex of pipes that wound its way underground throughout the city. It was a city onto itself, some with huge concrete pipes you could drive a small van through.

Ducard came with the ninja and saw the detonating explosives were in their places, each at key junctures under some of the most influential business structures and most densely populated regions of the city. But this all was nothing compared to the master bomb, situated at the center of the water main – beneath the now infamous Wayne Tower for Ducard, which also was in the key downtown business hub. This bomb would deliver an explosion so powerful it'd have the power and force of a megaton nuclear blast. This, in turn, would cause the chain reaction on all the other explosives, tearing Gotham City to pieces as the ground collapsed beneath itself.

Since Ducard's last meeting with Crane, he had hoped he'd inspire the young psychiatrist with his grand vision and that Crane would immediately set to work on his deadly toxin as he once did. But damn Crane, he was being notoriously slow with upping the potency of his toxin and synthesizing the drug in mass, arguing he didn't have the time or the equipment at his disposal when Ducard knew he had both! No matter, Gotham City's death would go as planned with or without the toxin and Crane still might be of use, Ducard thought, even without his drug.

His boots splashed through the water as Ducard made his way through the dimly lit tunnel – the ninja shining their flashlights to light his way as he walked to a steel door with green paint chipped and peeling from it. He took out a key and swiftly unlocked it and inside was a cramped, damp guardhouse with concrete walls – one of the few stations throughout the Water Works. The ninja already were waiting there for him.

"Yu-chung and Pai-chi, secure weapon S-75408," Ducard said.

Two ninja bowed and left the guard house. As the door opened, Ducard heard a sudden splashing noise and a voice, "Don't you touch me!" Ducard gazed at the door in surprise as someone who wasn't a ninja barged into the door before him. The ninja tensed at the visitor's intrusion and even reached for their weapons.

"A most unexpected surprise," Ducard gasped. "I must confess I didn't expect to see you so soon, at least not after the full report you gave me the other night from Gotham City."

"You know we both have no time for this," said the visitor. "Where's Crane? Is he here?"

"No, he should be back at the military compound working on the toxin."

"You are wrong, Ducard. He is here and if you don't do something fast, everything you worked for will be destroyed here, tonight!"

"What," cried Ducard. "He's here? Where is he?"

"Look for him yourself." The visitor pointed out the open door. "That is not my job. As you know I am just the messenger. That has always been my job."

"Qi-lao, Suo-wé, follow me," growled Ducard. "The rest stay here." He turned to the brunette woman standing before him. "You have proved to be far more useful than I ever imagined. You will be greatly rewarded after this is all over, Emily Andrews."

* * *

A warm breeze blew through the streets of Gotham City in mid-September. It was unseasonably warm, Indian summer, and restaurants and cafés were taking advantage of the beautiful evening as patrons and couples dined outdoors and sipped wine while gazing at the clear waxing moon. Flyers fluttered upon telephone posts and bulletin boards unnoticed as they often are. They were the usual – apartment for rent, handyman for hire, furniture for sale and the black and white mug shot photos of missing children, staring blankly at the viewer, perhaps never to be seen again by their families.

Emily Andrews walked into her now empty daycare, with just a few flyers left in her hand. She had gone to every street corner and post she could find it seemed all night, posting the photos of the two missing children Ted Davis and Susie Watson – both children from her daycare.

Susie first disappeared a week ago, taken as Susie played outdoors on the weekend. It was a shock and heartbreaking when Susie's mother came, sobbing, asking for Emily's help. Ted was abducted three days later on the playground. It was amazing such a horrifying kidnapping had occurred when all the parents were on edge from Susie's recent disappearance, but quite simply Ted's hysterical mother said one moment he was there and then he was gone. It was a parent's worst nightmare and an irrational fear swept through all the parents, many of them temporarily pulling their children out of her daycare – as though that was the connection for the kidnappings.

Emily didn't begrudge the parents for this, she might even do the same if she too was a terrified parent afraid for the life and the safety of her child, and in some odd way she felt responsible. So on a beautiful, warm autumn night she was out posting Have You Seen Me? flyers of the missing children, hoping in some way this would help. But as she flicked on the lights at the daycare, she was startled to see a man sitting in one of the few adult chairs – and it was not one of the distraught parents.

He was a rather large, muscular looking man who was quite attractive with his gray eyes and rugged good looks. He slightly smiled at her and for a moment Emily's terror and thoughts of running for the door were replaced by a sudden attraction to this mysterious man. But she quickly shook off this feeling and said:

"I'm sorry, sir, the daycare is closed. I suggest you leave and return tomorrow if you wish to register your child."

The man's smile persisted and now he seemed amused.

"Seriously, Miss Andrews, do I appear the sort of man to have a child?"

"Then if you do not, you have the wrong facility and I suggest you leave."

They stood for a moment in silence, Emily standing straight, almost statuesque in her terror and persistence, and the man relaxed and enjoying the tension.

"I do not have the wrong facility or the wrong person. No Miss Andrews, it is you I wish to speak with and I will not come back in the morning to do so."

Emily realized she no longer could play it safe or act as though this was a normal situation. She threw down the flyers, hoping the flurry of paper would block his pursuit if he tried to chase her and she turned to the door to run.

"If you leave now, the parents will never see their children again," the man said with terrible calmness and finality.

This was the worst thing he could have said to her. If she stopped, she risked being kidnapped herself – but if she fled the children might be lost forever. She stood still, then turned to face the man, who never moved an inch from the chair.

"You – it was you who kidnapped them?"

"Both children and they are quite safe. Neither has been harmed in any way."

"I don't believe you," Emily spat.

"That may be, but it is the truth. Please sit."

The man gestured for her to sit opposite him in the other adult chair. Emily knew she shouldn't, that her gut was telling her to flee and she was in danger. But if the man was telling the truth and he truly kidnapped these children, she had to know what did he want with her and could she bring those children back? With great hesitation and fear swelling within her, she slowly crossed the room to the man sitting in the chair and sat down. There was a low table between them, one little girls often used for their tea parties.

"Good. Now that we are both are comfortable, we will talk business." The man smiled charmingly, but it gave Emily no warmth or comfort. "Your persistence to help these children is admirable, but by helping me now you will bring them back to their loving families."

"By helping you? And what might that be? Kill for you," Emily said.

"Nothing so dramatic or dire. I assure you it will be something simpler than that. You knew of a man once long ago. You might not remember him but he is of importance to me now – and from what I heard – he once cared about you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Here you've kidnapped two innocent children and you're talking about one of my old boyfriends!"

"Fire – I do admire that. Perhaps your fire will melt some of his ice," the man said. "But what you will do for me regarding your old friend will bring these children back to their loving parents. I do not ask much, simply get – reacquainted with him."

"And why is this important to you," Emily demanded.

"The details are not necessary, but let's say it's important that he fulfill his end of the bargain. For this reason, I will need you to periodically call me and give a report. Tell me his state of mind, his mood – his place of work, how he's dealing with the stress. You can even help ease his stress if you so choose," the man added slyly.

"I will do nothing of the sort!"

"Oh, but you will – you will do this if you want those children returned alive. And if you won't, their blood will be on your hands, not mine. You alone have the power to save their lives."

"Who is this man you want me to see," Emily demanded.

"Glad you are finally coming around to reason."

From his breast pocket, he removed several photos of a man Emily somehow felt she knew, almost in another life or a long time ago. But she was certain now it was not one of her previous ill-fated boyfriends, which on some level, she was relieved. She picked up one of the photos and for a brief moment she almost forgot her anger and fear, and studied those icy blue eyes, the sensuous lips, the defined cheekbones – a face so beautiful yet so cold – as though he was guarding his own secrets.

"Do you recognize him," asked the man.

"I feel like I've seen him before, yet I can't remember."

"His name is Jonathan Crane. Do you remember now?"

Jonathan Crane – again it seemed familiar, but didn't jog instant recognition. Then she looked not at the face but at the eyes and instead of the iciness she saw before she instead saw something else – loneliness, even sadness behind them. Yes, Jonathan Crane, how could she forget? The lonely, outcast boy of Gotham City High School she befriended just a short while in their psychology class before graduation. But it was such a brief moment in her life and although Jonathan's intelligence was impressive, their time together was more frustrating during the behavioral study than anything else.

"Yes, I remember him," Emily said. "And now you wish me to spy on him. So much for old friendship. You're not one for nostalgia and loyalty, are you Mister –"

"One so beautiful shouldn't stand on formality as last names," said the man. "Call me Henri."

"Very well. If I do this for you, when will you release the children?"

"After Crane has finished his job for me and no more reports are required of you."

"No! No deal, Henri!"

He seemed shocked by her outright refusal and his smile vanished on his face.

"Miss Andrews, I don't think you're in the position to make demands. I'm the one with the children."

"And I'm the one you want to spy on Crane for you. If I'm to do something so base and low, let me say I won't do it cheaply!"

"I see fire is not always such a good attribute. Fine, name your price."

"That the children are returned to their parents immediately – as soon as I begin work for you."

"And what other demands?"

"That after this is finished I am not obligated to have anymore 'ties' or do anymore 'jobs' for you."

"And?"

"That is all," Emily said with finality.

"No greed. I'm amazed. No mention of money at all," Henri said with some surprise.

"Some things are more valuable than money," Emily said with venom in her dark eyes.

"I couldn't agree with you more." Henri replied quietly. "Fine. All your demands are agreed to. The children will be returned to their parents the first day you rendezvous with Crane. You will meet him at the Psychiatry Symposium – and I trust it will be a delightful meeting for both of you. After your meeting you will call me and I will tell you when you will meet him again. Is this understood?"

Emily still was clutching the picture of Jonathan, gazing at it, her hands beginning to tremble.

"Do we have an agreement, Miss Andrews?"

"Yes – yes we do," she said, with sadness and resignation in her voice. "But I must ask, why me? Why not choose someone else? If you have people to kidnap others surely you must have people to spy on Crane for you as well."

"Ah yes, I do have people to do this, but none that could get close to him – at least without arousing suspicion. You, on the other hand, he once loved and might appreciate seeing again."

Emily seemed shocked to hear this.

"Why so startled at the news, Miss Andrews? For a woman you are strangely imperceptive, but this perception – or need I say jealousy? – was not lost on your ex-boyfriend, Kevin Smithson. He knew of Crane's feelings towards you and I'm happy to say the cost of that information wasn't high indeed."

"Damn him! Damn that shit for what he's done!"

"Miss Andrews, for whatever your feelings are, we now have an agreement and I have answered your question. You now have your orders. The Psychiatry Symposium and remember, if all does not go well or I am not satisfied with your performance, I can kidnap more children at any time. I have the means to do so. Remember this."

Henri threw down a piece of paper with the date, time and address of the symposium as well as a contact number. Emily held tight to the picture, waiting for Henri to leave his chair and the door to slam shut before the tears began to fall from her eyes and stream down her cheeks.

* * *

Emily now sat at the shoddy folding table that had rusted from the damp and was scratched and worn from its long use in its many years in the guard room. She gazed at the two ninja who remained, their faces hidden by their black masks, only their dark eyes revealed as they gazed back at her with suspicion. Every now and then they would mumble something under their breaths in Chinese or Mandarin. Honestly Emily was never good with distinguishing one Asian language from another. She didn't know how much time she had left now before Ducard would return and Crane would be caught. 

In those moments, as she waited in that lonely room deep in the dank bowels of the Gotham City Water Works, Emily thought back to all the times she had with Jonathan. At first she had to think of it as a job so she wouldn't think too horribly of herself and what she was doing. She was doing it for the children, to save the children and yes, even her own career. If more children were kidnapped from her daycare surely she would have to close.

But then she saw Jonathan Crane in person after so many years. Gone was the gawky teenage boy wearing poor, mismatched clothes. Now he looked like a successful professional, with his high-priced suit, designer glasses and Italian leather briefcase. But these all were superficial, even as Emily had to work past her nervousness at their first meeting. He was looking at her with those some striking blue eyes – the same ones that gazed at her with such admiration and even love so many years ago. And like the photo, they had grown so distant, cool and guarded over the years.

_Dear God, Jonathan, what has happened to you over that time. Who has wounded you?_

But then Emily realized as she sat sipping wine with him at the restaurant after their meeting that she soon would wound him playing the spy, pretending to befriend him, even love him when all the while it was a lie, a fiction and she was doing this all for Ducard … Or was she?

That question was troubling to Emily and she pushed it aside, reasoning that Jonathan really wasn't her "type" and never was. But Jonathan displayed a quality her past boyfriends never showed – caring, he wanted to protect her from harm, almost to the point of aggravating her. And when he saved her from Fessanti at Arkham Asylum even at risk to himself, something changed within her mind and heart.

_No, I can't work for Ducard, not anymore_, she thought to herself.

She kept this secret and funneled Ducard half-truths laced with a few veiled lies that would seem almost impossible to detect. Emily would no longer act as Ducard's spy but he need not know this, hoping she could protect more children while helping Jonathan in some small way. And on that terrible night, when Gotham City seemed to crumble into ruin and Emily felt her life was at an end – she thought of Jonathan and wished for more, hoped for more, dreamed of more. And wished she could have loved him more.

Now Emily sat waiting in the dank cell of the guard room, not knowing how much time she had left, not knowing if Jonathan had been caught or was dead already – or even if she would join him in death this night. She felt the betrayal keenly in her heart, what she had done giving that valuable knowledge to Ducard, but she had to buy time and empty this location and it was the only way she knew how.

_Please forgive me Jonathan. Forgive me and I love you_.

A heavy sadness sunk into her heart she couldn't say this to Jonathan now, but she no longer could have time for regrets. Now was the moment she must act and if she had to die for it so be it. God knows she'd be dead woman soon anyhow if she failed.

Beneath the table, she very gently opened her purse with one hand and slipped out from it a slender metal canister. One of the ninja eyed her, then went back to pacing impatiently about the room. Her sweat was cold about the canister and she took a deep breath from her diaphragm so it wouldn't be as noticeable. Suddenly, with both hands she twisted the canister and threw it into the center of the room.

The canister sputtered and hissed, and in an instant the room was blinded was thick smoke. The ninja coughed and then dropped to the floor unconscious. Emily grabbed from her purse a small gas mask supplied by the Gotham City Police, which bought her a minute or two to get out the door into fresh air. Once she was out of the room and away from the gas, she flicked open a cell phone, a special issue by Gotham P.D., and called.

"Zone 174G is clear," Emily said.

"We're one step ahead of you," Commissioner Gordon said. "The SWAT Team should be there in less than a minute."

From the darkness a beam of sunlight shined a few paces ahead of Emily broken by a few shadows. Men swathed in black uniforms with GC SWAT emblazoned upon their bulletproof vests slipped silently down from their ropes

Help had finally arrived.


	17. Dark Labyrinth

All Jonathan could hear it seemed was his own frantic heart thundering in his chest as he waited for the ninja to pass down the dank tunnel into the darkness. He knew he was outnumbered and what he was doing now probably would end in failure and most likely his own death. But Jonathan also knew he had to try and this was the only way he knew how.

As the ninjas' voices faded away, Jonathan briefly scanned both directions before emerging from the shadows. Too much this reminded him of his early days evading bullies by hiding and creeping along, hoping he wouldn't be seen by Stan or one of his cronies. As a scrawny adolescent boy, it seemed that sort of behavior fit him better than now, dressed in a suit and accustomed to not hiding or fearing anyone now.

_But you've spent most of your life being afraid_. _That's why you relied on Scarecrow._

Jonathan passed by a pipe that read Sect. G8 and hoped somehow he knew where he was going. The detonating bomb was located at the center somehow and as he followed the ninja at a safe distance, he hoped at least he was heading in the right direction. Regardless, one of the central duties this night he imagined would be to guard such a precious and all-important weapon. It would be the one thing Ducard hinged all his hopes upon in the destruction of Gotham City now and Jonathan was certain Ducard would not be disappointed a second time.

The voices of the ninja faded into the distance and Jonathan kept a steady pace, watching from the shadows. They seemed to be drawing near the nexus and Jonathan realized he was too close now and had come too far to throw it all away to simple carelessness.

He remembered how he had "escaped" the military compound, telling the ninja that the toxin was ready for Ducard and it had to be delivered personally. Jonathan was impressed to some measure how high an estimation Ducard had of Jonathan's abilities – or how badly Ducard needed the toxin – for the ninja took Jonathan hardly without question on the same cramped van he had been ferried upon to Gotham City.

His heart raced and a sickeness crept over him as again he was surrounded by the black-masked killers, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched physically should he make a false move in their presence. No, Jonathan would have to outwit them with his mind – it always was his most powerful weapon against even his deadliest enemies. Jonathan remembered how his heart raced when the van finally slowed, stopped and stood before the entrance of the compound. Two ninja, one on each side of Jonathan, escorted him through the entrance and his eyes for a moment had to adjust to the darkness.

_Surely Bat-man would be at home in such a place_, he had thought.

And to Jonathan the darkness was secondary to the smell of stagnant water with a trace of a fouler stench. The ninja shoved him to the narrow walkway so they wouldn't have to slosh through the brown-colored liquid lapping through the pipes.

_Ducard chose well_, Jonathan thought. _The smell alone would be enough to keep the curious away!_

The ninja led Jonathan away from where the majority of the ninja had gone – down the large pipe Jonathan guessed held the megaton bomb at its epicenter – and instead was taken through a smaller channel. The long, arching pipe curved over them and a few sickly lights glowed dimly at long intervals, casting shallow pools of light so they wouldn't stumble over their own feet or slip off the walkway into the foul water. Although Jonathan guessed these ninja could trace every inch of this subterranean place in deep midnight and it would be him who would be stumbling blindly.

He saw a door approaching him on the right, one with peeling paint and rusting at its hinges from the damp. The ninja stopped before the door, but didn't open it. Instead, in a whisper of motion, one ninja slipped a small cell phone from his black folds and turned his eyes down to press a number to dial.

Jonathan's heart seemed to stop as he realized in a moment his plan was about to fail. Would it be Ducard on the other line or another ninja telling him to bringing Jonathan in for questioning? Jonathan had neither the time nor a second chance at this. He took a deep breath and pressed the release button on the toxin device concealed beneath his coat sleeve.

The toxin mechanism wasn't as graceful or elegant as his previous one – the one he lost on that fateful night that now seemed ages ago when Ducard found him huddled nearly frozen to death in an alley – but it worked well enough for all purposes. The ninja gasped as an odorless, invisible gas surrounded them and before they had wit and sense to turn on Jonathan with the intent to kill, they both crumpled on to the concrete in front of his polished black leather shoes. He didn't expect the other ninja would be so gullible or be such easy prey.

Now Jonathan was aware of every drip, every lap of water, keeping his ears open for ninja, who had a penchant for moving silently and striking without warning or mercy. But in the same token so had Scarecrow on so many occasions, taking his victims unaware; his victims only realizing their error when mixed with the bile of their own terror and the hoarseness of their screams.

Jonathan saw a ninja standing sentry up ahead and stopped before rounding the corner, trying to gaze at what room he was guarding. Was it the all important room that held the massive detonation or just a meeting room where some ninja chose to remain undisturbed? Jonathan was tempted to discover what was in the room, but it was too much of a risk for what might be nothing more than one of the many guard rooms that littered the place. No, for something so valuable surely it would merit more than one ninja sentry.

A voice suddenly came from ahead and Jonathan froze, seeing another ninja approach the guard room from the opposite direction. The ninja ran up, almost breathless and began sputtering something urgently to the guard ninja in another language – an Asian one – and it sounded as though something important had just happened. He wondered if it pertained to the bomb – if something went wrong with it or Ducard's plans. But then he heard one thing he could understand within the torrent of indecipherable language – his own name.

_They must be looking for me and if that ninja came from the other direction, I would have been discovered by now. I must be cautious. I have no room for error in this._

Jonathan began to slink back and out of view from the guard and reporting ninja, into the shadows and back along the tunnel from whence he came.

_Why slinking in the shadows! You could be master of this place – master of this city by now under me – if you would only trust me,_ Scarecrow hissed.

Jonathan winced, hearing Scarecrow's abrasive voice echo in his mind when he so desperately needed to concentrate. How long had it been since he had taken his medication last or was it the stress that brought Scarecrow to the forefront in his psyche once again?

_You are not being smart in this, Jonathan._ _Just what do you think you will accomplish except getting yourself killed!_

_Saving the city_, Jonathan thought lamely.

_Saving? You've destroyed it with all your doings so far_, cried Scarecrow._ The toxin, your deal with Ducard! You are at fault and now the bomb could be anywhere. Do you plan to wander this damn sewer all night until you are caught or killed? If you planned on saving the city, my Reign of Terror would have been the best way –_

_Just shut up you! Shut up you damn filthy pile of straw!_

Jonathan desperately tried to shove Scarecrow back into the recesses of his mind, but he had grown too strong now, too strong now his mind had allowed Scarecrow to give vent to his rage. A curve and juncture met Jonathan in the pipeline and for the life of him he couldn't recall passing this way before, although he was sure he had retraced his tracks.

_Oh, the ever-brilliant Dr. Jonathan Crane strikes again_, Scarecrow sneered. _Should we go right or left or perhaps should we break out a road map? _

Jonathan could feel perspiration break out on his forehead. Time was of the essence and here he didn't know which way to go – the right pipe or the left – let alone which way now led to the detonation bomb at the heart of the maze. Perhaps early on he had some vague sense of direction, some hint of which way it might lie, but now – he hated to admit to himself – he was lost.

_Well you have to pick a direction – you can't stop now._

Jonathan entered the left pipe and its darkness. As he moved through it he couldn't see much of anything except the distant gleam of light at the end. He heard the steady dripping and Scarecrow's constant grumbling. The lack of light magnified the shadows and made Jonathan even more uneasy. Where was he going and what would its end be?

_Jonathan Crane, trying to play the hero. So are you trying to be Bat-man now_, Scarecrow hissed in disgust. _You know even if you save the city they still will hate you, look down on you, ignore you. They will love Bat-man. Probably give all the credit to him what you are doing. Is that what you want, Jon? You risk your life, maybe even get killed for it and are forgotten or have people come to spit on your grave?_

_If they continue to hate me and my memory it's because of you, **Scarecrow.**_

_It's **because** of me you'll finally get the respect you deserve!_

"Enough!"

Jonathan's voice echoed down the long, hollow pipe and in that moment of terror he realized he had said the word out loud instead of in his mind. A voice then came in response from other end of the tunnel – an Asian language – the language of the ninja. Jonathan saw a shadow break the bright light at the end of the tunnel, then enter the pipe, the water splashing loudly as the ninja's feet raced in pursuit of him. Jonathan turned and scrambled back toward the other end of the tunnel.

As soon as he reached its end, he took the pipe he passed before – the one on the right – as a means of escape now. He could still hear the ninja calling after him in his own language, echoing long and hollow through the pipes. But now the ninja's voice seemed joined by others and knew now he had been discovered. His heart raced madly in panic as he heard the ninja's footsteps following him from behind. This reminded him too much of the old bully days, when he was chased down dark alleys to be beaten for fun. Jonathan thought he had gained enough power – that his intelligence would prevent such a horrible thing from happening again. It can't happen again – not now!

_Jonathan_, Scarecrow whispered, almost gently. _Oh, Jonathan._

The ninja's feet grew closer, gaining on him in the pipe. Jonathan was slender and fast but not as athletic and quick as the ninja. It would not be long now before they had him.

_There is no need to fear, Jonathan. You **are** Fear! Just let me, Jon. Let me take them._

_No, I can't!_

_Jon! We don't have time for this. They **will** kill you and where will that leave Gotham City and your precious plans of saving it! Let me take them, Jon … You know I can._

Jonathan suddenly stopped his running and stood dead still in the water and closed his eyes. The footsteps were so close now they must be only a few feet away.

_No, Scarecrow. I can take them!_

Jonathan slipped on a simple gas mask, not in the semblance of Scarecrow, and swiftly turned on the ninja, who seconds later were cloaked in sleeping gas.

* * *

The Gotham City SWAT team had fanned out from every direction throughout the Water Works and the Bomb Squad was busy at work. Ninja were being swiftly taken down with hypodermic guns. Gunfire was considered too dangerous and might set off any explosives and proceed with the detonation of whatever device they had. But although everything seemed to be running smoothly, Commissioner Gordon seemed troubled, looking for someone and wouldn't relax until that someone – whoever that might be – appeared.

Emily guessed this as she studied his features. She became a good judge of character from her years at the daycare center and Emily realized she too now felt the same way. She could not relax or feel at ease until she was back at Jonathan's side again, knowing he was safe. And she knew he was somewhere within this bomb-infested place, which could explode in an inferno death at any moment.

_Jonathan, may you still be okay. I hope we can see each other again and be far from all of this._

Emily still felt sick inside for her betrayal – the long betrayal of spying on him for Ducard. But she didn't know if she could ever confess this to Jonathan if she did see him again in this life. Would he ever forgive her? Perhaps even this would be too cruel a wound to heal, especially for Jonathan, who had been hurt by so much in the past.

"Miss Andrews, thank you for your help and your valuable information," Commissioner Gordon finally said. "Now I fear the danger might turn for the worse and think, for your safety, you should leave the Gotham City Water Works. We still have not secured the area nor dismantled all the bombs."

For a moment Emily was stunned at what Gordon was saying. She had risked her life and betrayed her love – already a terrible cost to her – and now she was being asked to leave?

"I appreciate the sentiments, commissioner, but I have a loved one down here. No, he is not a criminal, but he is in danger. I'm afraid I can't leave, even if it means my death," Emily said.

"You are a brave and courageous woman. We can't thank you enough what you have done," Gordon said. "But there is nothing more you can do here. Please, go with Officer Hanson to a place of safety and return to the police station with him."

Officer Hanson, a man in his late twenties with a bullet-proof vest and a black Gotham City P.D. uniform gently, but firmly touched Emily's arm, partly in encouragement, partly command, to come along with him.

"No … wait … I can't leave. Don't you understand!" cried Emily.

But suddenly her voice was muffled by a rush of wind from outside and sudden darkness as something blocked the manhole from above. The silence was followed by a faint rustling of wings and – almost soundlessly in the dark – something in black landed graceful on to the concrete floor. Emily at first didn't know what she was looking at, she was so in shock.

_A man dressed up like a bat? It can't be **the **Bat-man, can it_, Emily thought. _But why be so shocked? You rode with a madman wearing a burlap mask._

"Batman, it's so good to see you," Commissioner Gordon said. "And not a moment too soon."

"There are ninja, how many," asked Batman.

"We're uncertain. So far we've encountered 20 to 25 but who knows how many more there are."

"Ninja … sounds like Ra's Al Ghul. Perhaps a new one has risen?"

"Or the old one still remains," Gordon said. "Miss Andrews supplied us with some valuable information … about a Henri Ducard."

"Ducard … he is dead," Batman said decisively.

"Miss Andrews has been in communication with this Ducard."

"How often?"

"Miss Andrews, maybe you could tell – uh – Miss Andrews?"

But Emily no longer stood next to Officer Hanson or any of the other Gotham City officers or the SWAT team.

She was gone.

* * *

The darkness seemed to gather and grow in the tunnel, moving ever closer toward Jonathan. He pressed himself against the cold concrete and then sprinted ahead, trying to outrun the shadows that seemed to be everywhere, stalking him now.

_What have I gotten myself into now? What have I done?_

_You stupid fool! If I had been in charge none of this would have happened_, Scarecrow hissed. _But it still is not too late. We can still save ourselves, Jonathan. You can save yourself. Just let me take over._

In his heart Jonathan resisted, terrified of the enemies that seemed to be everywhere now, but even more afraid of letting go, letting Scarecrow rule him and lose the vestiges control – and with it the last frail threads of sanity that surely would unravel from him. Inside he trembled, every muscle straining as he gasped for breath through the basic gas mask he continued to breathe from in case he needed to use the gas again. His right shoe slipped on the slick walkway and he splashed loudly into the water. A few rats scampered up the slimy sides of the concrete wall. If any ninja weren't alerted to his presence they were now.

_Jonathan, is this your idea of a 'plan' of saving Gotham! Face it, Jon. That is over now! You must save yourself! Right now you are stumbling blindly in the dark, letting your fear guide you. Don't let Fear be your master, let us be its master and wield it as a weapon against Them!_

A loud cry came from the left curve of an expansive pipe, echoing toward Jonathan. From the Asian accent and words, Jonathan knew it was the ninja and that they'd be upon him soon. Jonathan tried to gain a foothold back on the slick walkway and run the opposite direction, but then he also saw shadows and movement from the opposite direction and his heart stood still. Frantically he gazed all around him to see if there was another pipe he could run down or take refuge. But he was in a mainline pipe and there were no branching pipes he could escape into.

As he stood still, panicked, his heart racing, the ninja from the left side rounded the bend of the pipe and came into view. Although there were not a lot of them – about four – Jonathan knew he could not fight them physically and with reinforcements coming soon, his situation was dire. It was best to take care of them quickly.

Jonathan prepared the toxin device underneath his coat sleeve, readying it to disperse the gas at maximum pressure and prayed it would be sufficient. He waited for the ninja to get closer, steeling his nerves as they neared him and knowing physically he'd be no match for them. He would be defenseless and helpless without the toxin device he now had. A ninja was yelling at him, probably to surrender and Jonathan slowly raised his arms, as if obeying him and he realized he'd have only one shot at this – only one shot to subdue them before the others came.

_And then what?_

The question lay heavy in the pit of his stomach. Should he continue to fight until the sleeping gas and the toxin were gone and he was overwhelmed by the ninja? This truly would be madness!

In an instant, too quick for Jonathan to fully comprehend, the lead ninja who had crept up on him as he stood still, supposedly in surrender, swiftly and suddenly lunged out and grabbed his arm to force him to the ground in submission. Part in panic and part in anger, Jonathan lashed out and shot the sleeping gas full into the ninja's face, who stood dumbfound a moment before collapsing at his feet.

The accompanying ninja stood still a moment, not knowing what to do next, but then sprung into action. Jonathan tried the gas on them, but they must have held their breath or his supply was running low for it had little effect on them. He now had no resort but to run and then he saw before him what he was running to. The reinforcements had arrived in his moment's delay – about 20 ninja stood blocking his way to freedom at the other end of the pipe. He now had no escape.

_I'm going to die here._

It was not a thought born out of depression or despair, just a matter of fact from a calculating mind and if there was one thing Dr. Crane prided himself on – even painfully so – was not deluding himself with optimistic visions when reality told him otherwise. And his reality – now – was painfully clear.

_Emily, I'm so sorry I failed. I hope at least you are safe and far from here._

The ninja slowly moved out and surrounded Jonathan, leaving a wide ring around him where just Jonathan and the unconscious ninja now lay. He wondered what they were waiting for and knew the ninja could kill him quickly if they wished to. But the ninja didn't advance, there was just a little muttering between them in their own language and he thought he heard some soft laughter. Next thing he heard was a high whistling sound and a flash of metal through the air.

Something sharp embedded close to Jonathan in the wall and shivered from the impact. He looked at the barbed teeth and blood red Chinese characters gleaming against the carbon steel – a Shuriken throwing star. Another one hissed through the air, whirling fast and missing him by an inch. Laughter roared among the ninja at their new sport and Jonathan's terror dissipated to rage at the sound of their amusement.

_How dare they laugh at me! Do they think I am a game?_

A Shuriken flashed through the air and this time Jonathan was greeted by sharp pain as it sliced through the edge of his left trouser and nicked his leg. He could feel a drop of blood dripping from the wound and with it his anger running freely.

A ninja stepped to the forefront, a star in hand, with much cheering and laughter. He then turned, preparing for a very well aimed and special throw at his target. Then, as he was about to release the lethal weapon, a cloud suddenly obscured his vision and he was choked by a gas that burned his lungs. The star fell from his limp fingers, clattering to the ground as he gasped and wheezed. When he turned to look through the haze, he saw he was surrounded by monsters. But nothing was more horrifying than the demon he was about to throw the weapon at just a moment ago.

"_Yes! Fear me," _the demon demanded._ "Fear me all of you!"_

To the ninja's surprise, the lesser monsters cowered before the demon, shrieking and howling, begging for mercy as the demon raised his black claw. The ninja also cowered, hoping he would not be the demon's prey as payment for trying to hurt him – although but a moment before he was disguised as a harmless enough looking man.

The ninja in the forefront screamed, pushing against each other and struggling to get away from Jonathan while the other ninja, unaffected by the toxin – too far away from its aim or who inhaled too weak a dose – watched in astonishment at the scene unfolding before them.

The ninja gazed at Jonathan, who now stood tall and proud, his arm aiming, ready to administer more of the gas to whoever dared approached him. But the ninja who did not taste the toxin would not be so easily intimidated. And in a deafening war cry, the ninja began to surge forward, determined to tear the slight man wielding the toxin apart if that was what was necessary to defeat him. Jonathan's face remained an unreadable mask, even in the face of his impending death as the ninja swarmed toward him.

"Enough," thundered a voice.

The black wave of ninja, so intent in their sole purpose to destroy, suddenly was halted – as if frozen by the voice – and then stood still and at attention.

"What is this," demanded the voice, laced with anger. "So many ninja needed to take down one man when more pressing duties have been assigned to you?"

A tall, strongly-built man dressed in black tunic, similar to the ninja, emerged from the darkness. But Jonathan did not need the light to recognize this man – he could recognize his voice anywhere – Henri Ducard.

He walked out amongst the ninja and they parted as he swept silently past, a dark glare in his steely gray eyes, towering amongst them in his anger.

"Since when does it take twenty ninja to take down an unarmed man," Ducard demanded.

Jonathan thought he heard a ninja mutter something to Ducard, but his glare just as quickly withered up whatever the ninja whispered to him.

"I gave you all an order and this is how you how you follow it?"

Ducard then stiffened, bringing himself up to his full towering height and barked out an order to the dispirited ninja, who quickly dispersed and disappeared like shadowy threads into the pipes leading to their designated posts. The few toxin-affected ninja were hauled away by their brethren and likewise disappeared, their screaming fading and eventually vanishing through the pipes. And then Jonathan and Ducard were left alone in that manmade cavern, his steely gaze now boring into him. In that moment, somehow Jonathan wished he was surrounded by the legion of murderous ninja rather than having to face Ducard again.

Henri tucked his hands behind his back and almost looked at Jonathan in amusement.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane, the genius behind the Fear Toxin – I would have expected more from you than this and certainly more caution on your part."

Jonathan felt like screaming out "What choice did you give me you egomaniacal murderer!" But instead he fell back on what was safe and ambiguous – he kept silent and maintained an unreadable expression on his face.

Ducard shook his head and muttered "Jonathan, Jonathan" as if he was talking to a well-intentioned but deluded child "you have such potential, but why waste it on this?"

"Perhaps you leave me no choice," Jonathan said, feeling a well of anger rise within him.

Ducard shot a steely gaze at him in surprise and anger.

"No choice? There always is a choice – the choice to do what is right, what is for the good of all humanity," cried Ducard. "And you truly believe saving this corrupt and decadent city is the only choice you can make?"

"Forgive me, but I fail to comprehend how killing millions of people is good for humanity," Jonathan said tersely.

"Indeed … and that is why it seems we never can see eye to eye, because you think all humanity is created equal Jonathan – that even the most horrible criminal can be cured and redeemed by your treatments. But Dr. Crane, sometimes it is best to wipe the slate clean and start afresh."

"And will I be on this 'slate' among the millions of others you will murder," Jonathan demanded.

"That is yet to be determined," said Ducard. "Again the choice is yours, but there is something perhaps that will change your mind."

"I am through with your Devil's Bargain."

"A Devil's Bargain – is that what you call it," Ducard said, amused. "At one time you were eager enough to sign your name on the dotted line in order to save your beloved Arkham. But you also know this – once you sign your name in blood it can never be washed away." He held out his hand to Jonathan. "Come, you must see the fine print of this 'bargain' before you choose to tear up the contract."

Jonathan hesitated to follow Ducard, but realized now his options had run out. Dread filled him as he sensed they neared their destination with each turn and passage through the winding pipe ways. At last they came to a small, unassuming door painted a dull green with paint that had begun to warp and peel from the constant moisture.

Ducard looked at Jonathan with almost a devilish grin.

"I think you'll be surprised by who is behind this door. It probably will be the last person you'd expect to see here."

Ducard slid the key into the lock and it clicked open. Jonathan could feel his heart quicken as Ducard turned the latch and gently pulled the door open.

Inside the room, flanked by ninja, was a woman he didn't expect to see – one with hair that used to be a rich brown but had long since turned gray and eyes once so sharp and clear that stared blankly at the inside of her prison walls. Jonathan felt his legs nearly give way at the sight as his heart filled with both joy and sorrow.

"Mom," Jonathan gasped.


	18. Behold Thy Son

**Chapter Eighteen: Behold Thy Son**

Jonathan wished he could run up and embrace his mother, hold her in his arms just to prove to himself she was alive, she was real and unharmed. So many emotions swirled through him and his legs trembled. He fought against appearing weak as Ducard stood beside him, obviously studying his every reaction and calculating what advantage he could gain from him now. Finally, after a moment's silence and the shock had passed from Jonathan, Ducard spoke:

"I would think you would be happier to see her after all the questions you asked me about her back at the compound."

"I am happy to see her if that is what you want to know – but I also think you're a monster. You took her, didn't you? You stole her from me at Arkham."

Ducard gave a small, amused laugh and this infuriated Jonathan more than anything he could say.

"Jonathan, what you say strikes me with great irony. What position were you in at that time to care for her? You were insane yourself and in a straightjacket if I recall. So what I did was protect her from your inmates when they were set loose. Could you imagine the horrors she would face if I left her in her cell and one of your _convicts _found her?"

"And I ask – just who set those convicts loose? You claim to have saved her, but I say it was you who destroyed Arkham and kidnapped her!"

"Harsh words from a man who is not so innocent himself. You are a brilliant man, Jonathan, but like all men, you have a dark side."

Jonathan shot a sharp glance at Ducard at this last statement and saw Ducard reaching into his black tunic and slipping a very coarse and worn fabric from it.

"The Fear Toxin wasn't just for therapy, was it Jonathan? There was always something more, something more sinister about it."

As he spoke, he fingered the coarse fabric and Jonathan could see from the corner a hint of crude twine in the stitching.

"You call me a monster, Jonathan, but my intent is just to help humanity – what good do you accomplish with this?"

"I do not have to answer to you," Jonathan spat. "And I never was a murderer!"

With that he turned his back on Ducard and entered the room where his mother was imprisoned, no longer caring what Ducard thought of him.

The ninja instantly stood to the offensive and seemed ready to attack Jonathan, but Ducard raised his hand and the ninja stepped back, allowing Jonathan to approach his mother who sat unresponsive upon a metal folding chair.

"Mom, it's Jonathan," he whispered softly to her, hoping the others couldn't overhear. "Are you okay? You aren't hurt?"

But she continued to stare blankly back at him, her face changing not the slightest. Until that time Jonathan thought he was the master of keeping an impenetrable mask – hiding his emotions from the world – but now he realized he was not. His mom had surpassed him in this – maddeningly so and he felt in that instant like screaming or grabbing and shaking her – just to illicit some response from her.

_I found you! I finally found you and you can't give me **anything**? Not even a smile or even a spark of recognition? Damn you! I'm your SON!_

Jonathan stifled this scream that remained silent and bitter in his throat. He fought against showing any signs of grief or anger, not in front of Ducard or the ninja. Indeed they must be a strange sight right now – mother and son – both staring at each other as though emotionless.

"Are you satisfied now, Jonathan? She has not been mistreated in any way and has had the best care since she's been away from Arkham," Ducard said.

"So you claim," Jonathan said tersely. "You have the best captive – one who will not speak."

"Enough of this! You have seen her, but now we have work to do."

"We?" Jonathan turned from his mother to gaze at Ducard. "I did not agree to help you."

Ducard stood up straighter than before, his eyes steely and cold now.

"Oh, I think you made that decision long before you entered this room or even this compound – intent to sabotage my plans," said Ducard. "Do not think I am so naïve as to not know this."

"If it is the toxin you want, I will not delude you. I do not have it and never had when I entered here. I will not let you use it as a weapon on Gotham City a second time."

"You are very bold considering you have no leverage and your mother is **_my_** captive," Ducard said.

Jonathan suddenly let his guard down and shot him a startled glance.

"Oh, do not look at me as though I am one of the rats that crawled out of the sewers here," muttered Ducard. "I have other means without debasing myself to torturing or interrogating women."

Ducard then shot a look at the ninja and barked a command to them in their own language. Two of the four ninja left their guard and approached Jonathan. It took all his nerve not for Jonathan to run or to look terrified as the men, completely cloaked in black and anonymous except for their eyes peering from narrow slits in their masks, approached him.

"You see, Jonathan, I expected this," said Ducard. "Like many of my former protégées, you continue to disappoint me. But there still is potential in you yet – you just need to recognize it and utilize it."

At this, the ninja swiftly clamped down on Jonathan's arms and he felt as though he was in a steel vice. One ninja harshly yanked off his suit jacket and seized upon the toxin device clamped to his forearm. The ninja – not the brightest – for a moment tried to rip it off of him by brute force before seeing the release lever and detaching it from Jonathan's arm. Already Jonathan could feel the scrapes and bruises begin to form on his arm.

Ducard coolly approached Jonathan and gazed down at him, who now had been forced to his knees by the ninja.

"You see, Jonathan, we could always do things the easy way or the hard way – but I always get what I want. You could be my colleague in this or my enemy, but I will have what I want out of you."

Jonathan remained silent, but venom and bile rose within him while Scarecrow grew in power and magnitude in his mind, uncoiling in his brain like a massive viper preparing to strike. Ducard said something else to the ninja and before Jonathan could realize in the haze of his fury, a bright flash of metal glinted in his field of vision and he heard a tearing sound. He gazed down and saw one ninja was quickly making short work of one shirt sleeve, ripping a huge fabric gash upward toward Jonathan's bicep.

_My God, what are they preparing me for?_

All his muscles suddenly tensed as he saw a third ninja carrying a slate colored metallic case, although he didn't know what was inside. He realized it was a futile attempt, but knew he had to fight. He would not go passively to whatever they were preparing for him. The ninja initially were caught unaware by the sudden struggle as Jonathan tore himself from their grasp and bolted for the door. But the ninja swiftly and with painful ease, grabbed hold of him before he even reached the door frame and pinned him down to the cold concrete floor.

Jonathan tried hard to restrain a scream of anger and frustration as they dragged him back to the place he was before. In spite of the failed attempt, Jonathan continued to struggle and fight the ninja, and one of them moved to strike him when Ducard barked an order and the ninja's hand lowered.

_What? They'll torture me, but not beat me,_ Jonathan thought with great irony.

Great bitterness welled now within Jonathan. All had gone wrong and he would meet his death – but first now Ducard would toy with him in a manner even crueler than the ninja with their razor sharp Shuriken.

For the ninja Jonathan was a diversion – a sport for their amusement to play to death – but with Ducard there was something underlying and more diabolical here. And the most painful factor of all was his mother continued to gaze at him with her uncomprehending eyes while all this unfolded before her.

_Will she see what is happening and not know or understand or will she just be screaming inside, a prisoner in her own body, unable to do anything? Oh, mom I wish you didn't have to see this! What have I done to bring us both to this!_

The ninja who was carrying the slate-colored case placed it on the table and one by one flicked the steel locks open. In Jonathan's low sitting position it was hard to see what was inside as the ninja opened it, yet he needed to know and straightened his posture to get a better view.

It was something unexpected – and even more terrifying than Jonathan imagined.

Dr. Jonathan Crane could be considered an odd man – aside from the fact he routinely wore a burlap mask and used Fear Toxin on his victims under the guise of Scarecrow. He did not fear physical pain as much as the anguishes of the mind – the deep inner recessed torments of the spirit. Jonathan Crane had been acquainted with physical pain in his youth and was quite used to it by the time he sat on that cold cement floor in the bowels of Gotham City.

He expected to see torture devices when the ninja clicked the briefcase open, but instead he saw something totally different and altogether sinister to him. The case held nothing more than hospital-grade hypodermic syringes, complete with the safety caps still on the needles, and a row of small clear-liquid vials. The writing was too small on the vials, but this caused Jonathan's fear to grow even more than any sharp-bladed torture device.

There was a reason the Fear Toxin was Jonathan's weapon of choice – the mind could be the most torturous creation ever devised if you could unlock its secrets and turn its terrors on its owner. Jonathan had discovered this and had been reaping its benefits for years – maybe now Ducard would indeed give him a taste of his own medicine if he refused to be his obedient Dr. Crane again – churning out Fear Toxin to poison countless millions in Ducard's scheme.

For a brief moment, seeing the row of gleaming syringes above the row of unknown medicine vials – Jonathan was tempted to cave in and submit to being Ducard obedient dog. But no he couldn't. What would happen to him if he officially sold his soul and even worse – did so while his mother watched it all?

The ninja moved away from the case and Ducard stepped up, gazing long at the contents of the briefcase. He tapped a few vials with his index finger, moving them slightly in their position within the case, as though with each move he was deciding Jonathan's fate.

"Jonathan, I don't want to do this," Ducard murmured in a sickeningly paternal tone. "But you leave me with no other option now."

At last Ducard plucked out the vial he seemed to be searching for and a satisfied smile spread across his lips.

"If you will not help me – perhaps this will 'persuade' you otherwise," Ducard said as he uncapped a needle and withdrew some of the liquid from the vial.

"Why do you need me," Jonathan gasped. "Make any of your mindless ninja do your bidding. They are perfect at it."

"Because, as you know Jonathan – you have special talents and abilities – and I am in need of such people by my side."

Ducard now approached him with the full hypodermic and Jonathan, for a moment, tensed, then thrashed against the ninja, struggling desperately to free himself.

"Hold him," Ducard ordered. "I don't want him injured or the needle to break."

"Stop! No," Jonathan cried out, sweat breaking across his forehead as Ducard poised to plunge the needle into his bicep.

"What, Jonathan? You agree to help me?"

Jonathan continued to pant, sweating and straining against the ninja who now held his arms and legs so tightly his joints began to protest in pain.

"Oh, God" Jonathan moaned.

"Jonathan?"

Jonathan's eyes gazed wide and he strained to lift his head.

"_Jonathan?"_

It was not the voice of Ducard or any of the other ninja – but the voice of a woman.

"Mom," Jonathan gasped, struggling to see her through the ninja and Ducard.

"Jonathan – are – are you okay? What are they doing to you? Oh, Jonathan!"

Her voice was raspy-sounding from disuse and emotion. The sound of his mother's voice, which he craved so much just minutes before, now was enough to break his heart. Jonathan's eyes turned in her direction and saw the ninja – the one who stood by the briefcase – turn and move toward his mother.

"No, don't," Jonathan cried out. "Leave her – leave her alone!"

Regardless of what Jonathan said the ninja disappeared from his line of vision and he was unable to see if he approached his mother or took up a post somewhere else in the room.

"Jonathan! Are they hurting you? My son! What are you doing to my son?"

At this Jonathan was nearly in tears from helplessness, anger and fear while Scarecrow raged in his brain, threatening to boil over at any moment. Somehow Jonathan wondered now if he had anything left to lose leasing the last seconds of his life to Scarecrow if it would just give him the fleeting satisfaction of feeling Ducard's throat beneath his choking fingers. But instead of answering in a torrent of curses to Ducard and his ninja, he replied to his mother:

"It's nothing, mom. They are just giving me my medicine."

Jonathan then turned, his ice-blue eyes piercing into Ducard's steely gaze.

"Do what you have to," Jonathan said. "I will play no more games."

"Very well, Dr. Crane."

Jonathan's teeth clamped down in pain as Ducard sunk the hypodermic needle deep into his flesh and injected whatever poison it held within his system. Whatever it was – he was ready to accept his fate.

* * *

Emily panted as she raced frantically through a narrow tunnel that somehow she felt certain at one point Jonathan must have crossed, but now wasn't certain. But whether he had come this way or not, she now felt a sense of urgency now, almost bordering on panic, to find him. She turned down a large pipeline and noted the writing stenciled in white letters: Sect. G8.

_Oh, God I hope he came down this way._

_And what if he hasn't?_

_Then I guess we'll die together._

_Or you're being a fool. Maybe he has made it out and will go looking for you. Remember he thinks you're safe. Maybe YOU will die alone._

_Shut UP!!_

Emily had been having a similar internal conversation ever since she began her mad pursuit to find Jonathan and realized what a Fool's Errand it was. She was an unarmed woman going into unknown territory where there were ninja. Love is blind – and stupid – indeed.

Suddenly she heard voices up ahead and ducked into the cover of a shadowy corner and saw some ninja talking. Luckily they weren't coming her way nor did she see Jonathan as their captive. But if Jonathan was among them, she would have the consolation she had found him and he was still alive. Well, she at least couldn't go down this route – not when ninja were patrolling it.

Emily tried to move as silently as possible away from the patrolled tunnel and cautiously began to turn around. She took a step, then a few more when she felt certain the ninja weren't following her, but still she felt ill at ease somehow and more frightened than ever. She had nearly been caught and not too long after she left Commissioner Gordon in search of Jonathan.

She gazed at her shadow and wished the light wasn't so bright in this tunnel she has just passed into. She felt more exposed than ever and realized if a ninja happened to pass this way now he couldn't help but see her as clear as day.

_Stupid! Why did you take such a dangerous route, _Emily thought.

_Because I had no other choice,_ her inner voice answered.

But she shrugged off her doubts and fears. She had no time for this. Her heart beat faster in urgency. Somehow she knew she _had_ to find Jonathan and fast!

_He must be in trouble. How can he not be in a place like this?_

Emily glanced to her side again and suddenly stopped, sensing something was not right. She strained her vision and memory a moment – searching what it might be while the inner clock in her mind continued to tick relentlessly.

_What am I missing? Something is very wrong here. I sense it._

As Emily turned around her eyes rested on the wall and realized although the light remained fixed where it was – the shadow which had been following her was gone. Her heart skipped a beat and panic suddenly filled her. A moment later a hand covered her eyes and a black leather gloved hand crushed against her mouth – muffling her screams.

* * *

Jonathan collapsed onto the dank concrete floor, his arm still throbbing with pain from the injection. He still did not feel the effects of the drug, but he imagined he would soon. Jonathan looked up – his ice-blue eyes filled with hatred at Ducard – then turned in the direction of his mother. The ninja no longer held him now that the injection was finished, so Jonathan tried to stand up and walk to her, but found himself momentarily dizzy, and had to suffer the humiliation of crawling to her side. He thought he'd see many different emotions in her eyes – disappointment, pity – even anger. But again what he saw broke his heart even more – in her warm brown eyes gazing back at him were tears of love.

"Oh, Jonathan, my Jonathan – what have they done to you?"

"It is nothing. I knew this might happen and have prepared myself for it. I have failed."

"Jonathan, no."

"I'm sorry – sorry I couldn't do more," Jonathan whispered, hoping Ducard or the ninja couldn't hear. "Sorry I couldn't take you from this place."

His mother just shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gently brushed Jonathan's dark hair.

Jonathan savored the moments he had with his mother, even if he thought they were his last. How many times did he long she would come alive as she had just a moment ago, to hold him and tell him everything would be okay?

And now Jonathan sensed something inside him besides love tarnished with regret. He suddenly felt fevered. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart began to race. A wave of dizziness suddenly overwhelmed him, followed by a feeling he no longer was in control of his body – and it was terrifying. But something even more terrifying still awaited him.

The coiled serpent that had remained semi-dormant and impotent in his mind – the ever present, sleepless creature that was Scarecrow – suddenly began to uncoil and slither into his conscious psyche.

_Oh, God. No … no! Not now!_

But Scarecrow didn't listen to orders or pleas. He continued to slide, slowly but relentless from the dark corner he always inhabited and to spread out – like a malignancy – throughout his mind, his tendrils touching every corner, every memory, every piece of knowledge Jonathan possessed. It was horrible – an invasion of his soul by the demon he could never be free of. Scarecrow – sometimes his savior and now his tormentor.

Jonathan lowered his eyes from his mother, hoping she would not recognize Scarecrow in them if she saw any change. But now he could hear Scarecrow's voice – not as if he was in his head anymore, but in the room – as real to him as anyone there.

"Jonathan, what's wrong? Tell me," his mother demanded, fear in her eyes.

But Jonathan remained silent, even at her continued pleas.

Ducard stepped out and stood near mother and son, gazing down at them.

"Mrs. Crane, this is a very important, but long-overdue day for you," Ducard said. "Your son would like to introduce someone to you – someone he has been very close to all his life."

Mrs. Crane gazed up at Ducard, her shining eyes now mixed with anger as well as fear.

"What's wrong with him? What did you do to him you _monster_," she spat.

"Oh, I am not the monster. No, I leave that all to your son. Mrs. Crane, may I introduce you to – _Scarecrow_."

* * *

The ninja held his leather hand to Emily's mouth, muffling her screams. She could hear the police in the distance, but how would they know she was in trouble and where she was? She had tried to rip the ninja's hands away by force, but strength for strength she was no match for a trained killer from Ducard's elite League of Shadows.

The ninja's grip tightened as she continued to struggle frantically. The ninja then made a sudden movement away from her mouth and toward her head. In Emily's shock and horror she had a fleeting image of the ninja grabbing hold of her head and breaking her neck. A piercing scream rang from her – both of fear and anger, and she rammed her pointed high heeled shoe into the ninja's foot.

Now it was his turn to scream, but to Emily's terror she realized he didn't loosen his grip, but merely tightened it … and this time his hands moved to her throat. At once the ninja's death grip would silence her screams and end her life. She screamed again as the leather groves clamped hard and choked away her cries in a sudden, gasping wheeze. Emily fought against the ever tightening squeeze that was relentlessly crushing her throat like a boa constrictor upon its victim.

Her lungs burned, aching for the oxygen suddenly cut off and her brain at first screamed alarm and panic at the sudden loss of air – but dizziness and haziness of thought followed with fearsome swiftness. Her movements became slower, more sluggish and her vision faded. She felt a wind brush against her face and sensed the flutter of something dark and heavy swirling in the air. Emily didn't give it much thought at the edge of consciousness, but imaged she saw a shadow sweep past her and suddenly the choking pressure was released.

She struggled to stay awake, as much as falling into the hazy blackness of unconsciousness seemed inevitable and almost welcoming now. Her eyelids fluttered open and her oxygen-starved brain couldn't comprehend what she saw … an enormous bat-like figure towering over a beaten and unconsciousness ninja.

_The Batman … he's here_, Emily thought before her consciousness slipped away.

* * *

"Scarecrow … who is Scarecrow," cried Jonathan's mother, searching her son's eyes for the answer.

Jonathan's breath now was coming in quick gasps, as though he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs. His brow was covered in sweat and his normally sharp, piercing blue eyes seemed gazed and far off. He roughly tugged at the tie that always seemed meticulously tied about his neck.

"Jonathan, what's wrong," she demanded. "What have they done to you?"

"I don't know how much more time I have," Jonathan gasped. "But know – know that I love you … and do not believe him."

"Who? That man?" Hatred already burned in her eyes as she looked at the self-pleased expression on Ducard's face.

"No … Scarecrow. If he … when he comes … do not believe … me. He is the Master of Lies. Do not believe me, mom. Do not listen to me … I love you and always will … but don't listen to me … not to Scarecrow."

"But who is Scarecrow?!"

Jonathan hesitated, the gasps became less, but his dark hair was matted against his slick brow. His clear, blue eyes dazed and almost drained of all energy and life as Scarecrow continued to batter down his mental defenses. He reached out and gently grasped his mother's hand. She was shocked to feel it clammy and trembling beneath her fingers.

"Scarecrow is … is me. It has always been me … the evil and darkness of my soul. He lives within me … and I can never be free of him."

"Oh, Jonathan," his mother whispered, confused at his answer but also frightened her son was dying and didn't know what he said now.

She embraced her son, terrified if she let go of him he would be gone. She felt him trembling in her grasp and then thought he was crying from his steady gasps. As she slipped her arms away, expecting to see tears on her son's face, she was shocked to see not only were his eyes dry, but were piercing and clear. A cold, ironic smile crept across his lips and she realized her son was no longer with her. She had to be gazing at last into the face of "Scarecrow."

"Nice to finally meet you 'mother.' It has been long overdue, but Jonathan was always so selfish about you. But now the pleasure is all mine."

"Where … where is my son?!"

"He is dead … his time is over. Only Scarecrow now lives."

Scarecrow rose from the cold concrete and she was startled to see the difference between her son's illness and weakness just a moment ago and Scarecrow's strength, energy and frightening resolve. With a sly smile he looked at her once more and then moved to turn away when she cried out:

"Wait, I don't believe you! Let me speak to my son!!"

"I told you, it is over. Your son is no more … only the Master of Fear remains."

"You are the Master of Lies!" she struggled to rise to her feet. Her legs shook from the effort from long disuse and muscle atrophy. "You are what has destroyed him all these years … eating him up on the inside … killing my child! Monster!! Give him back to me!!!"

In a movement even the Master of Fear did not expect, she grabbed at him, clawing at the ragged fabric about his sleeve that had been ripped open to administer the deadly injection. It was a futile attempt, for the ninja pulled her off of Scarecrow, who although was startled by the frantic gesture, didn't exhibit any fear or anger. He appraised her with those maddening cold blue eyes and then that smirk – which she quickly was coming to loathe – crossed his lips.

"Your son? If a son is what you wish, behold thy son … for I am the only one who remains now!"

"No," she shrieked. "Lies! Jonathan fight Scarecrow! You must!"

"Enough of this quaint little melodrama," said Ducard with tired amusement. "Our time runs short and the bomb will detonate soon. I suggest we both leave this facility."

"That may be," said Scarecrow. "But the Gotham PD stand between us and our exit. Surely you have not forgotten that."

"I have not," said Ducard very stiffly.

"You have forgotten one other thing, Henri," said Scarecrow.

Ducard gazed at Scarecrow with steely eyes – Jonathan rarely if ever called Ducard by his first name and here Scarecrow was using it so casually with him. Scarecrow outstretched his arm, his torn sleeve truly dangling like a scarecrow's rags. The welts and scratches made from the clumsy and brutal ninja still were red and raw upon Scarecrow's arm.

"You have something of mine. I will need that if you wish for me to help you," Scarecrow purred silkily.

Ducard's eyes narrowed in distrust, then he sighed and crushed the burlap fabric into Scarecrow's awaiting hand.

"And the toxin," Scarecrow whispered.

Ducard paused even longer at this request, but then gave an order to a ninja, who then fetched the apparatus and handed it – with much hesitation – to the dangerous man before him.

Scarecrow easily latched the toxin device to his arm and secured the belt about his waste that held the deadly formula. He then slipped the burlap mask over his head slowly, as if relishing the feel of it – as though the fabric was of the finest silk. Then he turned, the burlap obscuring all but his cold blue eyes and a sigh escaped from the twisted, crooked twine of the mouth:

"It's good to be back."


End file.
